


Zoop Goes to Middle Earth - Part 1

by Zoop (zoop526)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Diary/Journal, Gen, Humor, Modern Woman Falls Into Middle Earth, Parody, Self-Insert, Tenth Walker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-02-13 23:32:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 27
Words: 20,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2169498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoop526/pseuds/Zoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gratuitous, shameless self-insert. Ever wonder what Orcs in Middle Earth are *really* like? Me too. So I'm taking a trip to Arda to get the scoop on my favorite angst-ridden, misunderstood, just-wanna-be-loved critters, the Orcs. And hope I don't get eaten along the way. (Warning: may be occasionally humorous, but I make no promises.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1 – Starting Out in Mundane-Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Some have claimed that a few of my stories are 'self-inserts,' as though my original characters are somehow 'me' vicariously having these exciting adventures. Maybe. A little. Among the vast ranks of authors, I don't think I'm alone in that some aspects of my characters' personalities are bits and pieces of myself. But I have never consciously written a story wherein I, personally, am the protagonist.
> 
> Until now.
> 
> So pop some corn and hang on to your hats, folks. You might wanna get a tight grip on your seats as well. Zoop's going to Middle Earth to interview Orcs. To get the real scoop on what they're thinking in the primary period of her writing. The end of the Third Age, if you're not keeping score.
> 
> Word of warning: Zoop is not going to dive headfirst into Orc pants. She's a happily married woman. With children. This does not mean she won't throw others directly into Orc pants. Gleefully. With wild abandon and much maniacal laughter. Hand over fist, if needs be. I like to put a smile on an Orc's face; that's how I roll. :D

In preparation for my grand adventure, I've gathered a mess of crap I'm sure I won't need, but can't seem to walk out the door without. Figuratively speaking. Because one can't just walk into Mordor.

To begin with, I want to be as unobtrusive as possible. As non-just-bamfed-in-from-another-world as I can get. So clothing-wise, I'm going for serf. I've got the medieval equivalent of clam-diggers, a bulky shirt without buttons, a cloth vest, and brogans from a recent Civil War re-enactment's merchant tent because I refuse to putter about barefoot in a hostile environment. I did that once the night before the Indy 500, and was picking glass out of my feet for hours afterward. _Never again_.

It took some hunting on the internet, but I managed to secure a canvas bag that looked semi-not-from-the-21st-century. It's a replica of the one Kaylee carries in _Firefly_ , if you're curious. Adorable.

Yes, I'm totally going to Middle Earth carrying a Kaylee bag. What of it?

Next, the contents have to be helpful to me, but not 'give away the game' helpful so to speak. Nor can any of it be electronic, unless I want to also bring the schematics for a Hobbit-powered charging device. Badly as I want to bring my iPod and entertain Orcs with Rammstein and Abba. Nope, better leave the introductions to disco and death metal to my fics. Orcs can't kill me if they're make-believe.

So far, I'm planning on bringing the following: hand sanitizer, bars of soap, toothbrush and toothpaste, a roll of TP (I assume by the time it runs out, a 'native' solution will have presented itself), a year's supply of the medications I have to take (one does not make it to middle age without requiring a drug regimen – this is America), and a means of return. And changes of clothing. We won't be re-wearing underwear six times by flipping it inside out and rotating around the waist and leg holes, no matter how desperate we are.

I've contemplated it, and I think I will most definitely bring _The_ _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy with me for reference. Here are two reasons why that is not a problem: 1) it would likely take an act of someone's deity to translate modern English text into ancient Westron text, which I think is written in Tengwar anyway, and 2) a lot of the place and people names are likewise 'translations' from the 'original,' so nobody will know who anyone is anyway.

Black Speech references, I assume, would be useless since they are, by and large, modern inventions. If the Ring's inscription can't help me, nothing will.

The other trick that I hope won't be a problem (insert quiet chuckle here) is understanding the common speech of the 'natives' of Middle Earth. (snicker harder) I'm anticipating that (snort) there is enough of a relationship between _spoken_ Westron and modern English that conversations won't be an issue (giggle).

But just in case I'm dead wrong, a Sindarin dictionary is also coming along. I've even translated some useful phrases for particularly desperate situations, such as, 'Where can I pee?', 'Should I run from that?', and 'Don't kill the Orc.' I'm also bringing along an adventuring girl's bulk supply of pepper spray and some short bungee cords for detaining hostiles. I'm not Biz, for crying out loud.

Now then. The means of _getting_ there. And returning once the damage is done, of course. I'm not going to reveal _those_ secrets. We each visit Middle Earth in our own fashion. Mine will involve the Witching Hour, and that's all I'll say on the matter.

Next stop, Rivendell. Or Moria, if I overshoot the target.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:
> 
> Biz – protagonist of Weird Summoning


	2. Day 2 – Target Acquired and Missed

Getting off to a rip-roaring start already. I have arrived 'safely,' if this can be called 'safe.' I am literally lost in the middle of nowhere, without a soul to ask directions of. If this is Rivendell, the place has gone to hell.

If I were to make an educated guess, I'd say I'm in Hollin. The place used to be overrun with Elves, and that could be what this broken down building that I'm camping in is from. As I try to get my fat ass comfortable and not dwell on the fact that I left the house this morning without so much as a granola bar to my name (this is what happens when I get over-excited and rush myself – at least I remembered notepads and assloads of pencils), I can hear wolves off in the distance giving some poor bastards a rough time. I'm sincerely hoping that when night falls, I'll see some fireworks, because then I'll know that the Fellowship is near.

Otherwise, there are some things worth noting. One, this place is really, really quiet. Oh sure, you've got the usual sounds of wind knocking the tall grass around and whistling through the ruins, but you don't have cars. No honking and whatnot. And the skies are totally clear, too. It's like the US after 9/11, when the airports all shut down and planes stopped flying for days on end. You didn't realize how much a part of your life a sky full of jet trails was until there weren't any. That's what this is like.

It's like walking inside of a visionary's dream here. Tolkien wasn't all that fond of industrialization – you'll notice when he talks about machinery and pollution, it's usually in the hands of the bad guys – and favored a more romantically pastoral environment. So, you know... you can breathe the air and likely drink the water without needing an inhaler or purifier. I assume on the water, anyway. I had the good sense to bring some from home just in case. Wish I'd packed at least _one_ Twinkie, for crying out loud.

With the absence of combustion engines comes unexpectedly clean _-smelling_ air. I had no idea that, even in the little city-ish town sort of thing I live in, there's enough pollution to make a difference. I almost couldn't breathe when I arrived, like there's suddenly too much oxygen and my system freaked a little. Like there are still frickin' _trees_ to produce it or something insane like that. (/sarcasm)

Apart from being nervous as all hell that something Tolkien didn't see fit to share about this region might show up – like roaming bears or ravenous badgers or mountain lions with a vendetta – it's pretty nice here. I could get used to it. Assuming the wolves and wargs Gandalf singes don't scamper away in _this_ direction.


	3. Day 3 – Miscalculation of Ginormous Proportions

Near as I can figure it, the date is January 13, 3019. Or thereabouts. The pissy wolves and fireworks in the distance were, indeed, the Fellowship passing through on their way to Moria, having discovered that the Redhorn Pass is full of shit. I mean snow. And cranky mountain attitude problems.

Slight miscalculation regarding the language barrier. And apparently the proximity of English to Westron. Every word out of my mouth makes them all pee their pants. Not because I sound funny, either; they are _not_ smiling. I have no idea what the problem is. All I said was, 'Do you understand me?' and they flipped their shit in six different directions.

 _Major_ miscalculation about the Fellowship's grasp of poorly pronounced Sindarin. Aragorn is trying like a trooper to understand me, so he gets Awesome Future King points. Legolas is evidently offended by my struggles, as if I'm doing it on purpose. Frodo is super tolerant, and seems to commiserate with me, like his first forays into Elvish 101 were also fraught with pain and anguish. I've managed, I think, to convey that I don't eat people, I couldn't hurt anyone appreciably (pepper spray attacks notwithstanding), and what a coincidence, I'm heading in the same direction as they are! Lucky me! And by the way, has second breakfast started yet? (Pippin is now completely in favor of me joining the group.)

Boromir, of all people, is eying me warily. Like I'm somehow a bigger threat to their quest than he is. Oh son... you and I have to talk...

Then there's Gandalf. I can't be sure, but I think he knows what I'm saying, whether because he actually speaks English, or he has some sort of bizarro Maia translation power. Or a fish in his ear. I'm going to be keeping an eye on him, because Sindarin is bullshit. They're all watching me suspiciously, which is really unnerving, but at least they haven't set fire to torches and run me off yet.

I'll have to take Gandalf aside pretty soon and 'splain things. The last thing I want to do is run afoul of a wizard ten minutes into my mission.

Well, this one, anyway. I could give a shit about Saruman.


	4. Day 4 – Wizards Know Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January 14, 3019 (probably)

Finally camping. I did some quickie sketches of the gang by firelight*, which impressed them enough to decide I'm not a closet Fellowship murderer. Honestly, anyone who draws like a grade schooler can't be much of a threat, right?

I'm realizing now that I should have lost 100 pounds before embarking on this journey. I'm exhausted, my feet are killing me (even with the Gel soles), my hips hurt, and I have nearly exhausted my roll of TP thanks to the weird, non-preservative-enriched food and manky water sources. So much for 'pastoral.' That is clearly a euphamism for 'massive quantities of e-coli.'

And a giant squid nearly ate me on the way in here. It's fun to giggle over tentacle porn; not so fun to be the star of it.

So yeah, Moria. The Black Pit. Khazad'dum. Probably something else Elvish. We're at the famous 'crossroads' location for the 'night.' I'm watching Pippin like a hawk. And eying the pebble supply. I counted them; if even one goes missing...

I had a chat with Gandalf. By some squicky, weird twist of fate that I'm _certain_ Tolkien didn't intend, English equates to Black Speech in Middle Earth. How do you like them apples? No wonder Legolas has been pushing the boundaries of his Depends every time I open my mouth. I'm sorely tempted to get behind that Elf and sing Rick Astley songs in his ear. I may even whisper nonsense like 'grunties' just to get a rise out of him.

On a personal note, Gandalf's impressed by my 'refined' usage of the language. Just like the good dark lord intended, congratulations.

No, Gandalf has no idea what I'm writing, nor does he recognize the alphabet used in my LOTR book. I laid it out for him – where/when I'm from, how much I know, what my ultimate goal is. No spoilerific reveals, just generalizations like, 'Ya'all are headin' down the right track. Thumps up and kudos to you.' Ample reassurances that, though my knowledge of the Ring's making and history rivals his, I have no designs on the overbearing dingus, and actually couldn't care less about it.

Although, I _am_ curious about one thing. Maybe when I've been around these guys longer, I'll get up the nerve to ask. But don't you wonder? Our world is utterly dry of anything 'magical' – would the Ring have any effect on me? Am I considered 'outside the world' from Arda's perspective, so the Ring wouldn't 'call' to me, as it were? It's rather intriguing. I'll have to file that away for later. Maybe I'm as immune as Tom Bombadil, you think?

But my 'thing' about Orcs, and my interest in their favorite colors, preferred vacation spots, and musical choices, seems a little... odd to him, for some reason. Huh. Am I the _only_ one who finds this stuff interesting?

 **Gandalf** : I beg your pardon?

 **Me** : I want to talk to Orcs. Get their perspectives. The other side of the coin, so to speak.

 **Gandalf** : [rapid blinking] I... that is to say... Are you quite certain?

 **Me** : Absolutely. It's why I came here. I know you guys have the Ring business in good hands. I'm hoping to have as little impact on _that_ as I can. I just want to catch an Orc – maybe a couple, for a broader view – and interview him. That's pretty much it.

 **Gandalf** : What you propose is exceptionally dangerous. By their nature, they are...

 **Me** : [challenging] Are you sure about that? Have you, personally, ever talked to one?

 **Gandalf** : No. I have not had the... pleasure. You must understand how they were made...

 **Me** : [dismissive wave] Thousands of years ago, uncountable generations ago. Forget what they were, because that's water under the bridge. What are they _now_?

 **Gandalf** : [sigh] I do not know. I strongly advise you not to pursue the answer yourself.

 **Me** : I came here to do that. I'm _going_ to do it. Between your time and mine, all Orcs disappear. _All_ of them. Where I come from, that's called genocide, and it's an abhorrent practice. Your mission is to poke Sauron in the eye as hard as you can; where do you think the loss of the Dark Lord is going to leave them? What do you think they'll be like when their driving force disappears from the world? I want to find out. I hope you and the rest here will help me, but if I have to do it alone...

 **Gandalf** : That I cannot allow. I will speak with Aragorn. [slight smile] You are a fool, perhaps, but one whose intentions seem to be without malice. I hope, for your sake, this quest does not lead to your ruin.

 **Me** : No kidding. My husband would be _pissed_ if I left him alone with the kids.

Having Gandalf available to talk to is a double-edged sword. In a day or two, he'll be out of the picture for awhile, and I'll be back to poring over Sindarin words I can barely pronounce. I'm starting to pick up a few words here and there in Westron, but it's slow going. My ability to absorb foreign languages has always been pathetically inadequate.

Oh snap. Guess who wasn't watching the pebble pile? A plink and a splash, the Westron equivalent of 'Fool of a Took!', and the show begins. See ya'all in Lothlorien.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: See my profile on FanFiction.net for them quickies! Sketches, I mean. Honestly, people...


	5. Day 6 – I'm Better at Climbing Trees Than Tanith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January 16, 3019 (I'm guessing)

Maybe I'm in my mid-40s and overweight, but I can get up a rope ladder pretty damn fast when someone threatens me with Orc-applied GBH*. Since I've written _exhaustively_ about the whole Moria Event (and so has Tolkien, let's be honest), I don't think I need to enumerate every little detail of my embarrassing showing in the Chamber of Marzipan* or whatever it was called. Let's just say that I channelled my inner Tanith and not only knocked a few heads in with Sam's frying pan, but I also dampened my drawers.

Some assumptions I made in _Dreaming of You_ hold true in reality: unwashed, grown Men do not smell like roses; Elves never look like they've been living rough no matter what horrible disaster they've just lived through; and Gimli is short.

In a nutshell, we stomped Moria like a drunk in an alley and ran out squealing like pigs. Gandalf took a side trip with an old friend, and we're now stuck up a tree on the border of Lothlorien.

I know what you're thinking: Gosh, Zoop, you were just in Orc Central! Why didn't you grab yourself one?

Two reasons: 1) there were hundreds of them, and they were pissed, and 2) the night ain't over yet.

But about what Orcs _really_ look like, or at least the ones in Moria. I got some pretty good looks at those fellas, and let me tell you – they don't have any. Good looks, I mean. Okay, probably faces only their mothers could love. Or stare at it long enough and it kinda morphs into 'not barfaliciously hideous.' I didn't get that kind of time to really digest and absorb their features. Kind of in a hurry.

So these guys were sort of... primate-ish, like a strange diversion from the line that produced humans. Only smaller, some of them. Hobbit-sized, mostly. There were a few bigger ones that were threatening to reach Aragorn's shoulder. Their skin color was difficult to identify in the darkness, really tough to pinpoint in firelight. They're basically dark-skinned, and damned hard to see when the lights go out.

I didn't see a damn one of them smiling, but I saw lots of teeth. It was like a dog walking into a roomful of angry, wet cats. Mouths open, teeth bared, hissing and spitting... I don't know if they actually talked coherently among themselves during the fight because a) _busy_ , and b) they seemed to know exactly what they were doing, reducing the need to discuss matters. And what they were doing was piling on top of us in a massive swarm. Who needs finesse when you can bulldoze? (Obviously these guys don't watch well-choreographed fight scenes, which would teach them to take turns attacking the good guys. Sheesh.)

And of course, they brought a cave troll. Orcs of any breeding know how to accessorize.

Also, for the record, Orcs have red blood, not black. They have large quantities of it, as a matter of fact. Cleaving a head in twain, for example, unleashes a massive amount of blood and vomit. Though technically, the vomit came from me, not the Orc. And here I always thought I could handle blood and brains getting splattered, thanks to prime time news programs and after-school television specials, and it was only _snot_ that made me queasy. You learn something new every day.

Oh wait, there's some action on the ground. Hold on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GBH = Grievous Bodily Harm  
> Chamber of Marzipan = Chamber of Mazarbul, Balin's tomb
> 
> References:
> 
> Tanith – Protagonist/narrator of "Dreaming of You"


	6. Day 7 - Elves are Wet Blankets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January 17, 3019 (who knows?)

Apparently, the Galadhrim believe in 'catch and release' when it comes to Orc prisoners. The 'release' part being so the little blighter's on the run when they shoot him. Something tells me that Tolkien's glasses are a bit rose-tinted when it comes to his Elves.

So I had possession of a scared shitless Moria Orc for about ten minutes, during which he mostly hissed and spat. No chance of talking him in off the ledge with swords and arrows pointing in his face. Nor did I have enough time to sketch out what he looked like. There is no appreciation for art in Lothlorien; don't let the gorgeous architecture fool you.

Since I can't get a decent word out in Sindarin, and 'Don't kill the Orc' turned out to mean (evidently) 'Shoot him in the back' in translation, I wasn't able to save the poor bastard. Don't think for a minute that's not bothering the crap out of me right now.

Also, our Marchwarden escorts' pissy attitude toward outsiders has been exacerbated by me, since a) I tried to help an Orc, OMG, and b) I clearly speak the Orcish language. Fluently. Better than the Orcs do, very likely. Not that I had time to find out.

We're taking a short breather on the way to meet the Lord and Lady of the Wood. Once again, I'm feeling my inner Tanith: an audience with the most influential Elves in all of Middle Earth, and I stink like a men's locker room, my hair is greasy from lack of 'care,' I have pit stains and crotch stains (from sweat, yuh nasties), and I can barely stand, I'm so god damned tired. Honestly, are we in that big of a damn hurry? We're going to be here for a month or something. At least let _me_ freshen up; I'm fatter and older than everyone in this group. Okay, I'm older than the Hobbits for sure, and possibly Boromir. But definitely fatter than _anybody_. I am the Fellowship of the Ring's token Bombur. Every adventuring party needs a Bombur, amiright?

Dammit, break time's over. Time to drag my befouled ass before the Queen. Gods, I hope she speaks Orcish or this is going to be one long, painful visit.


	7. Day 8 - Galadriel Don't Put Up With Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January 18, 3019 (in some drug-induced fantasy)

I thought it was going to be the most awkward conversation _ever_ , considering the stink-eye I kept getting from Haldir as he introduced me (and the rest of the party) to Galadriel last night. Didn't know what they were saying, of course. Could've been Sindarin; might've been Quenya. She's older than dirt; it could go either way. What I did _not_ expect was anything resembling fluency in conversational Black Speech. That kinda threw me.

But yeah, Galadriel speaks Orcish. She confessed an obvious aversion to it, and I wisely didn't ask what that aversion might entail (crap on toast, who _doesn't_ know about her baby girl?). She managed, also, to keep the pee-pee dancing to a minimum. Some cringing and shuddering, like the words themselves were poisonous, but otherwise coherent.

 **Galadriel** : I am told you attempted to save an Orc captured within our borders.

 **Me** : Yes, I did.

 **Galadriel** : You also speak their tongue. Fluently.

 **Me** : According to ya'all, yes, what I'm saying sort of sounds... like Orcish. I have no idea why.

 **Galadriel** : [arch eyebrows] Don't you?

 **Me** : No.

 **Galadriel** : What purpose would that particular Orc have served? Why did you seek to prevent his death?

 **Me** : Look, I'll level with you: I'm here to learn about Orcs. Talk to them, get their perspective, understand them. That pretty much means I'm going to have to keep one or two of them alive to manage it. [pause] Alive longer than ten minutes, that is.

 **Galadriel** : [frown] For what purpose?

 **Me** : [thoughtful pause] [shrug] For the hell of it, I guess. No particular reason. I'm not trying to 'change the world.' I'm just on a fact-finding mission.

 **Galadriel** : Indeed. And what do you plan to do with your... facts?

 **Me** : [sly, defiant smile] We'll see, won't we?

 **Galadriel** : [narrows eyes] You will tell me now, or you will force my hand.

 **Me:** [Zoop's wishy-washy backbone collapses] All right, here's the thing. Yes, I do want to affect some kind of change in this world. At least as far as making you fully aware of what you're all doing, once the Ring goes foosh and Sauron is out of the picture.

 **Galadriel** : We are well aware of what we are doing. It is the same task that we began ages ago. The servants of Melkor must be battled until they are no more, then peace may reign on Arda.

 **Me** : [smirk] That's the story, is it? Do these 'servants of Melkor' have any say in the matter? Any voice of their own? Are they the same today that they were back when the orders were handed out?

 **Galadriel** : They continue as they began, sowing fear and hate where there was once love and peace. They hate all things, all beings, and seek to destroy all in their path. They...

 **Me** : ... might have changed over the past eleventy-thousand years. They've had periods of peace themselves, when Melkor and Sauron have been stripped of power and sent packing for hundreds of years at a stretch. What do you think they did all that time?

 **Galadriel** : [frown] They hid in their holes and... I do not know.

 **Me** : Maybe they formed communities? Maybe they developed family and clan structures? Maybe they learned how to work together for the betterment of their kind – raising young, caring for their sick and injured, protecting their territories against hostile invaders? Maybe they thrived in some semblance of peaceful coexistence with their neighbors?

 **Galadriel** : [frown deepens]

 **Me:** [slight sarcasm - okay, more than slight] Apparently, _nobody_ knows what went on. Didn't care to find out, did you? Just barged in and cut them down without a thought. Jesus, it's no wonder they're always so rude when you visit.

 **Galadriel:** [indignant] You make uninformed accusations...

 **Me:** And _you_ march blindly to a song that hasn't been heard in thousands of years. All I'm asking is that you listen to what it sounds like _now_. The tune may have changed.

Ah, Elves. You gotta love them because that's what Tolkien wanted you to do. Love the Elves, hate the Orcs. Evidently, I'm a rebel who indulges in contrary thinking. But because Galadriel _has_ lived for thousands of years, and _has_ seen/done it all, she's listening to me. She's indulging a moment of doubt. She's going beyond 'they hurt my baby' to 'are we somehow the cause of this?' Maybe not the _ultimate_ cause, but certainly not accusable of making an attempt to change the situation.


	8. Day 9 - Because I'm Not an Idiot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January 19, 3019 (or thereabouts)

Bright and early this morning, I accosted my friendly 'escort' (I looked it up in my dictionary – that's what they called him, but I'm pretty damn sure he's a guard and is keeping me from getting my dirty mitts on something expensive) and after about twenty minutes of flipping through pages and struggling with conjugations, managed to ask if he or anyone with a sense of adventure could teach me how to use a weapon with an ounce of dignity. Sounded like a good idea at the time.

I am now lying in a gasping, whimpering heap in our ground-level camp, praying for death. After lunch, I'm scheduled to re-enter the gauntlet and try not to embarrass myself this time. We determined pretty early that swords will never, in a million years, be my weapon. So I get a mace. A good, sturdy stick with a heavy chunk of wood on one end (because I'm _training_ , not trying to kill). Delicately (and unnecessarily) ornamented because they're Elves and they never make simple, utilitarian shit even for practice. No, it's gotta have fancy doodads all over it. So you know it's Elvish. Even from a distance. Because if it's not Elvish, it's _crap_.

But I digress. My arm hurts like you would not believe. The upper arm fat I've carefully cultivated for decades has jiggled and shaken so much, it'll foam like a carbonated beverage if I get even a tiny cut.

Fuck this, I'm too tired to write. I'm sure the rest of the day will suck balls and I'll be dead by the time the sun goes down.


	9. Day Something or Other – Lunchtime in Lothlorien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have no frickin' idea

One of my favorite authors once wrote, "Time is an illusion; lunchtime doubly so." I believe this with all my heart, now that I've survived an unknown number of days getting my ass bashed in by 'well-meaning' Elves, and my brain jellied by pretty much everyone in sight who's getting tired of hearing 'that dirty Orc business.' I can now, after who knows how long, hold up my end of a conversation in Westron. Sort of. I feel like I'm listening to the American tourists speaking slooooowly and LOUDLY so their English can be better understood by the non-English-speaking natives. (Yes, I know we do that, stop being polite.)

Let this be said, though: the Middle Earth Diet is a winner. It involves no fast food, only a modest amount of deer fat if you sneak some before the 'thoughtful' butchers have discarded it, no french fries (barbarians) unless you're successful at the deer fat pilfering AND can convince someone to boil it, and lots of walking. Good god, is there ever a lot of walking. Lothlorien would benefit from the institution of mass transit. Or at least bicycles. Since Galadriel and Celeborn live in the epicenter of this place, everything is downhill from here, relatively and figuratively. My 'training' ground (I hesitate to call this 'training' – it's more like 'beat the crap out of the Orc sympathizer time') is a good thirty minute hike down from our pavillion, then a two hour drag uphill when the initial torture ends.

I would die in a stair-step challenge, folks. Let's be honest.

Aside from the suffering caused by vigorous exercise upon a middle-aged body that has seen nothing more strenuous than parallel parking before its arrival on the scene, I seem to be dropping a few pounds here and there. Just a few. I'm sure I'll find them again when I get home.

Oh bugger. My dutiful language arts teacher has just arrived. As usual, she has the look of someone who's been sentenced to particularly unsavory, and gratuitously vindictive, community service for littering.


	10. Day Whatever – And We're Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 16, 3019 (the calendar works again)

The last unknown number of days in Lothlorien have been extremely uninteresting, from a diary perspective, so I decided to just skip to the good part. Which is today. I'm nestled all snug and warm – so to speak – in the canoe with Legolas and Gimli. I had myself a taste of _lembas_ and gagged; it's like dry shortbread. And I mean _really_ dry. Nobody thought to use liquids in its making, kind of dry. I'll be dipping that shit in water whenever I have to muscle it down, I assure you.

Gift-giving session with Galadriel went well. I'll bet you're wondering what sort of delightful present the Zoop got. _Not cyanide_. Nope, she gave me a short knife easily concealed on a lady's person. Just in case one is in a bind and needs a pointy friend. She also saw to it that Longelfnameriel gave me a _real_ mace for head bashing to replace my training weapon. Shit, it's like they think I'll need to defend myself against _Orcs_. Hah. Very funny, guys. [/sarcasm]

Since the actual, real-life trip down the Anduin took over a week, I'll spare you, gentle reader, the boring descriptions of water fights between canoes, soaking wet Fellowship members glaring indignantly at the Zoop while wringing out their clothes from a random forced dunk, and the occasional Abba song sung at max decibels through the rapids. All of which I'm sure will happen. I'll let you know.


	11. Forget About the Days – Enter the Nazgûl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 23, 3019

Nothing spices up a leisurely boat ride like a rain of arrows from the bank. And I was afraid we'd start hearing banjos before too long.

Another opportunity for snagging an Orc, thwarted by setting and circumstance. I swear, you'd think this world was bent on avoiding a potentially meaningful conversation or something. Well, in a few days I'll get another chance, so I'll try to be patient.

Pippin actually asked why I didn't try to make friends with those Orcs. Not sure if he was being sarcastic or not, but I told him it didn't seem to me like they would be amenable to civil conversation after what we did, and managed to single-handedly introduce Middle Earth's first nuclear meltdown.

Word of warning: do not refer to the Fellowship's trek through Moria as a) home invasion, b) an infringement of squatter's rights, or, god forbid, c) _trespass quare clausum fregit_ in front of Gimli. I don't know half of what he sputtered and roared over the ensuing half hour, but I gathered from the few words I _did_ understand that Moria is kind of a sore point for Dwarves. So keep 'reality' as far away from that guy as you can.

On the plus side, this was my first experience with the Nazgûl. I have to say it, a hundred feet in the air, and thus respectably far away from _me_ , steals quite a bit of their thunder. Frodo was the only one who freaked out, near as I could tell, but that's understandable. War wounds and all. To me, it was pretty anti-climactic, given what horrors modern film-makers are able to scare the crap out of us with.

Whatever 'dread power' a Nazgûl has for inciting a good old-fashioned pants-wetting seems to be lost on me. Plummetting gracelessly from the sky doesn't fill me with fear either. I had to suppress a giggle, imagining those boisterously cheering Orcs getting flattened by their ally when it landed.

You'll notice they went quiet after it fell. I'm sure that's no coincidence.

Anyway, it's nap time with the lads. Yet another night spent in a damp boat.

What, you thought because an Elf made it, it doesn't leak? _Pshaw._ Put a couple of non-Elven fat asses in there, it'll take on water, _trust me_.


	12. PJ is Compensating for Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 25, 3019

The Argonath. The Pillars of the Kings. Considerably less gigantic than the movie would have you believe. And totally not defying gravity with giant outstretched arms.

Just eyeballing it, I would put the statues at about half a football field's length in height, so on the order of 150 feet*. I'm not converting that to metric, people; I'm old. The carved details aren't even apparent until you're right up under those guys, then it's sort of Viking-esque in how it's rendered. The left-hand palms are held up, all right, but they're flush with the torso because anything else, according to my weak grasp of physics, would have caused them to plummet to the bottom of the Anduin ages ago. (Jesus, PJ.)

We've camped at Parth Galen, and everyone's getting ready for tomorrow's Big Event. Okay, _I'm_ getting ready. Can't lie, I'm a bit nervous. I've checked and rechecked my weaponry. I will be dual wielding maces for the coming onslaught: Elven mace in one hand, can of mace in the other. Aragorn has asked me a few times if I'm _sure_. If this is what I really, really want. I half expected him to launch into a Spice Girls song, but he demurred. Gimli pointed out that he had no plans to give quarter to a load of foul Orcs, and I think I surprised him when I said I didn't blame him. It wasn't easy getting it across, but I think I reassured them that I wasn't going to just walk up to a bunch of them and politely ask for their insights. No, I'm knocking one on his ass and tying him up. It worked for Nymhriel**; it'll work for me. I don't expect these guys to risk their lives for my silly quest; they've got a much more important one to worry about.

And I'm being extra nice to Boromir. It's a piece of cake, saving his doomed ass in a fic; not so easy in practice. I won't just _let_ him get pin-cushioned, but I have to be realistic. I can't prevent fate from having Her way. Boromir surviving isn't how the story goes, and the story will go on no matter what. It sucks balls, but there it is. I don't have to like it. I can rail against it all I want. Nothing will change, unless by some miracle I'm in just the right place at just the right time... with just the right amount of army surplus firepower.

I'm not expecting a miracle to happen, and I'm not going to pull some stupid stunt that gets me killed. My husband would never forgive me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Football Field is Zoop's standard unit of measure for anything bigger than a car.
> 
> **Nymhriel = protagonist from The Healer's Oath. Disclaimer: The Zoop is not going to pull the same sort of shenanigans Nymhriel did, so knock off the snickering.


	13. Any Minute Now...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 26, 3019

Pretend I'm whispering discretely in the bushes like a wild life documentary narrator because I'm bored and I have to do **something**.

_What we're seeing here is nervous agitation now that the alpha male has wandered off to contemplate his next move. The lesser males are making small talk and occupying themselves with repetitive tasks. The pale one with his nose eternally pitched in the air is ensuring the contents of his quiver are loose and easily extracted. The short, hairy one continues to sharpen his axe blade. The alpha's inner circle is huddled together in conference. I'm afraid I can't see the alpha's rival anywh-_

_Ah, there he is. He's just glanced behind him warily and is heading after the alpha. If we're lucky, we may see their long-awaited confrontation._

Or not. I think I'll just keep my pokey nose out of it for once. I've had to remind myself, as I stand on the precipice, that a tiny nudge in any direction could make or break this story, in spite of my earlier assertion that 'the story will go on.' If that naïve assumption is wrong, and the story is malleable due to my intrusion, I certainly don't want to be the cause of a fuck-up so large it results in the Ring falling into the wrong hands. But yes, I fully intend to lay the groundwork for civil relations between Men and Orcs. I want that. I don't know if it'll mean my own time will be in any way affected; that would require the peace to hold longer than five minutes. If all I can manage is a pause, a momentary peek into the mirror... _something_ to make the killing stop even for a heartbeat, I'll call it a victory.

Nobody wants to say it, but the Orcs, as far as we know, live pretty long lives when they don't have dark lords dicking with them. Look at the Elves: having a long life gives you the opportunity for study and invention us short-lifes can't hope to match. And guess what? The Elves are leaving. Their 'time on Arda' is drawing to a close, and they're hopping boats left and right. Their wisdom is _also_ leaving. Sure, they write stuff down, but how many Men in this world are literate? How many have access to these priceless treasures of information? How many would be better off working with an aged Orc who still remembers that _athelas_ isn't just an invasive weed?

I don't know how it's going to go, once the incoming shit hits the fan. Will I wind up with Frodo and Sam? Merry and Pippin? Aragorn and the rest? I have no idea. Tell you _one_ thing, though: I'm not –


	14. Whoops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 26, 3019

It was an accident, I swear. When the Orcs attacked, I thought to myself, _Hey, it's not like I'm going to be much help_. I was like, _The best place for me is the fuck outta the way_. I reasoned that I could pick around the bodies and find a live one after everything sort of blew over. Then I saw an Orc heading my way. Right where I was cowering in the bushes near the shoreline.

Not gonna lie, I was scared to death. Everyone else had gone off on a 'Where's Frodo?' hunt, so I was completely alone. Along comes a fully armored, fully armed Orc, whacking the bushes with his sword in search of halflings or possibly terrified rabbits. Well, when he got to _my_ bush, I let him have it...

... in the face with pepper spray, people. _Jesus._ I followed that up with a classic Beatles tune*, then set about securing my catch. That's when I made my big mistake.

Where I was located happened to be in a straight line between Frodo and Sam, and the boats. I wasn't even thinking clearly, what with 'oh boy oh boy oh boy!' sort of elation going through my head, because this Orc was just _gorgeous_ (in the sense that he wasn't horribly mutilated or deformed – no movie!Gothmogs here). He tore off that helmet to scream bloody murder and grind his knuckles into his eyes, then dropped like a stone when I thunked him. He looks a lot like a Man-Orc hybrid, just exactly what I would expect coming out of Isengard. I can't _wait_ til he gets over his pissy attitude and starts talking!

But I digress. The incredibly bad judgement call I made was to join Frodo on his leg of the quest. I've never even speculated on the intrusion of a wacky 10th Walker on this part of the story because I have a strong sense of the gravity involved. Like, if some showtunes-spouting dinkus toddles along with Frodo and Sam, the whole Ring-dunking event will be scrapped, Sauron will win, Gondor will fall, Rohan will collapse, darkness will engulf the land, and Arda as we know it will dissolve like metal flooring when a xenomorph bleeds on it.

So what do _I_ do? Someone oughta smack me on the nose with a rolled up newspaper. This has turned into the worst group of heroes-out-to-save-the-world that's ever been conceived by _anyone,_ except maybe Stan Lee. You've got the too-nice guy with the Dark Secret, the country bumpkin spouting good old-fashioned Hobbit sense, the shit-talking man-beast sizing us all up for snacks, and the token Bombur suffering from hot flashes.

Okay, I'm assuming this Orc will be a shit-talker when he actually says something. He has that sort of look about him. Go have a peek at the picture I drew**. Once his eyes stopped streaming and he gave up trying to break out of the bungee cords, he brooded for a bit and I snuck a sketch in when he wasn't looking. Also included is the reaction to me staring at him for so long. 'Don't fuck with me cause I fuck right back twice as hard' is written all over his face.

In my little completely-made-up headcanon, Isengarders aren't looked on too favorably by 'purebred' Orcs. I wonder if that's a 'thing,' because he is a serious mix-and-match of Orc and Man. Comparing him to the Moria Orcs, he's got all the same features, just in varying degrees of manifestation. Like his ears aren't quite as big, but definitely pointed. What I can see of them, anyway. They've been pretty thoroughly chewed up. He keeps his hair cropped _really_ short; none of that dreadlocks down to the butt sort of thing PJ tried to sell us.

Though I stripped off his armor, I want it on record that _I didn't check to see if he had normal primate body hair_. Just so we're clear. I'm not Nymhriel, I'd like to reiterate. I would also like to point out that 'Orc funk' closely resembles over-worked, under-washed Man funk. For the record.

His hands and feet are clawed. Pretty strong ones, too, and by shape they remind me of cat claws. They're black, and really stand out against his brown skin. I would put his skin shade in the neighborhood of someone who has one caucasian parent and one parent of African descent. Sort of like a cappuccino. Without the froth. But get this: _his eyes are brown_. Like a frickin' Hershey bar, kind of brown. Not black, _brown._ Not red or yellow, _B-R-O-W-N_.

Build-wise, he's more Man-like as well, again comparing to the Moria Orcs. They looked built to gallop about on all-fours, while this guy is clearly bipedal. And he doesn't hunch over, either; he stands up straight and looks down his nose at everyone. He's only a couple inches taller than me, but he still tries to look a foot taller. It's kind of amusing, really.

Anyway, we're in the Emyn Muil, arguably the harshest country in Middle Earth. Sharp stones and rockfalls and all manner of bleakness. Where ever it was that PJ found to film these scenes was spot on. Apart from being old and wearing bifocals, I lost quite a bit of my grace and sense of balance with the births of my children – yes, sunshine, brain cells died in that exchange – so I am having a really hard time of it out here. Practically crawling on all fours. Mr. Pissy, so named until he sees fit to provide another, is in worse shape because his hands are tied behind his back (I may have an insanely large soft spot for Orcs, but I'm not an idiot) and he's rather resistant to accompanying us on our grand adventure. Not all that keen on sight-seeing in Mordor, for some reason.

I tried cheering him up by pointing out that, 'Hey, these are halflings. You sort of accomplished your mission, a tiny bit.' He wasn't amused. In fact, he has 'stink eye' down to a science.

When he doesn't realize I'm watching him out of the corner of my eye, he's staring at nothing and breathing a little more rapidly than seems normal. A bit like a cornered animal. I hope I can get through to him before he springs. For now, I'd better get some sleep. We're sharing watches, and it'll be my turn in a few hours. I'm doing my best a) not to fuck up the entire mission, and b) to contribute at least _something_. Frodo needs to sleep more than any of us.

Oh, as an aside: _I see you, Gollum. Turn the fucking lamp off behind your eyes or don't poke your head up under the moon, for crying out loud. Dumbass._

* * *

** From the lame pencil of Zoop:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "Maxwell's Silver Hammer"


	15. The Way to an Orc's Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 27, 3019

I'm rather predictable these days. In a stressful situation, or with people I don't know very well, I resort to my sense of humor to get me out of it. Even though the Emyn Muil area is a land bereft of anything even remotely amusing, I have the handy straight man – er, Orc – to bounce my best bits off of. Not being one to deprive _anyone_ of my wit, I've been laboring in Westron so the boys are likewise entertained.

For the record, they're not. We've taken a breather on the same rock at least twice today. I suspect we'll be sitting on it again tomorrow. Tempers are getting a wee bit frayed.

Last night I fussed over everyone a bit. Made sure Frodo was snug and warm in his blanket. Offered to tuck in the Orc and received a silent but deadly rebuff (he snapped at my hand, in case you're curious). Sam got the treatment when I relieved his watch. Since I'm not much use otherwise, I'll be the den mother for this little troop of cub scouts. Why not?

When we got moving this morning, breakfast was pretty dull and quiet. Everyone but me was pouting about something (I'm sure my time will come – I just remembered there's a bus-sized spider event coming up – why the hell didn't I sign on for Aragorn's Charity Fun Run instead?).

Because Mr. Pissy hasn't earned the right to have his hands released yet, his _toilette_ is awkwardly managed. _Not by me_ , I'd like to point out. I let boys take care of boy things. The important thing we covered, though, was rations. Between me and the Hobbits, we are _buried_ in _lembas_. Jesus. I must be carrying twenty pounds of it myself. Our new friend, however, left the house with barely a nibble in his haversack. A few strips of dried meat, origin unknown. I lack the courage to ask. So I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone: 1) include him in our exclusive little dinner club, and 2) break the ice.

 **Me:** You're going to run out of your own rations pretty soon. I'm afraid we only have this to give you. [show him leaf-wrapped brick]

 **Orc:** [stink-eye*] What is it?

 **Me:** Well, about the only way I can describe it is, it's ass in wafer form.

 **Orc:** [blink] [frown] What?

 **Me:** Imagine the taste of ass, injected into a block of hard, dry, gritty, flat, cracker-like bread. That's what this tastes like.

 **Orc:** [stunned] Ass. It tastes... like ass.

 **Me:** Yes. Elves made it.

 **Orc:** [sarcastic] And you offer it to me.

 **Me:** It's the least I can do. If you're starving, and you're willing to eat ass, we've got plenty. Help yourself.

I swear to god, he looked away so I wouldn't see the corners of his mouth twitch. He has an iron will, this kid. But I think I'm softening him up. By the time we get back to this spot on our next aimless circuit, I'm sure he'll be spilling his life story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * stink-eye = As I mentioned, he's got this down to a science. He narrows his eyes so they damn near disappear under his brow ridge, which is pulled down like a tent with the center pole taken out. He curls his upper lip, baring his teeth and flaring his nostrils. Then he broadens and flattens his lower lip so his canines are fully exposed. This is obviously not his 'come hither' look. More like his 'get the fuck away from me or I'll bite your face' look.


	16. When is an Uruk Not an Uruk?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 28, 3019

Here's something interesting. You know, besides the breathtakingly boring landscape we are continuing to circle aimlessly. I'm sure there's an end to it somewhere; Tolkien said there was, so there must be. Apart from that, I got a tiny bit more out of the Orc. Not his name, though. I will have to continue referring to him as Mr. Pissy. He doesn't much appreciate that appellation, and has likely added it to the list of reasons why he should kill me as soon as his hands are free. Right under pepper spray to the face, bonk on the head, marching in his skivvies, occasional head-over-heels tumble down a slope because he damn well refused to let me hold his elbow for balance so it's _not my fault_ , and the junk handling. I'm not on Sam's Christmas card list for that last one, either.

Hey, Frodo's already carrying one nasty thing around 24/7. Sam can do his part for the thirty seconds it takes to hold an Orc's willy. Sheesh. At least he hasn't expressed an interest in doing anything _else_. It could be worse.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand. This morning's amazing revelation came after Mr. Pissy muttered to me that we were being followed. For a moment, I thought that was pretty cool, warning us about Gollum. Like he had our best interests at heart. Warming to us and all. _No._ He pretty much popped my 'yay' balloon when he pointed out that he was only telling me about it so _his_ throat wouldn't get cut when _mine_ did. Gee. How super sweet and thoughtful of you. Then he asked what must have been a seriously burning question for him. And about damn time, too.

 **Orc** : What do you want with me?

 **Me** : [perks up] I'm glad you asked. I was hoping you would.

 **Orc** : [stink-eye]

 **Me** : [shrug] Well, information, mostly.

 **Orc** : [double-barreled stink-eye] I will tell you _nothing._

 **Me** : I kind of figured that. FYI, it's not Saruman's strategies or military secrets I'm interested in. I'm not looking for your understanding of his plans, or what you think of the drapes he hangs in his office. I don't care about Saruman at all.

 **Orc** : [slight, _ever so slight_ confusion] What do you want, then? I'll tell you nothing of Mordor either.

 **Me** : I wouldn't expect you to. I'd be surprised if you'd even been there, being as you're from Isengard...

 **Orc** : [nuclear detonation level stink-eye] _I am not 'from' Isengard_.

 **Me** : [o-face] I see. Um... I thought... you marched out of Isengard.

 **Orc** : [calming slightly] I did.

 **Me** : Oh. Okay. Um... but... you weren't... _born_ there? Is that what you mean?

 **Orc** : [low-level stink-eye] [commences silent treatment]

 **Me** : Can you at least tell me your name?

 **Orc** : [slightly higher intensity stink-eye]

 **Me** : Ah. Okay. Um... basically, I'm interested in you. Just... consider telling me that much, okay?

 **Orc** : [I might as well not be on the same planet with him]

Not exactly a warm and friendly fellow. I am now curious as all hell. If he wasn't born _inside_ Isengard, where did he come from? I mean, shit, people, _look at him_. There is so much Man in him it's not funny. Okay, there's a shit-ton of Orc too, more than would allow him to pass as a Man without help. Such as a hood, or Cousin It's hairdo. I'm just baffled; was he the product of a botched rape-kill-eat attempt during a raid? Did his mom trip and fall into a vat of Orc spunk? What the hell happened?

By my best guess, which isn't easy because he has a pretty rugged face that's marred by a few long scars that trigger my mom-response (sharp intake of breath through clenched teeth; strong urge to fetch band-aids and bacitrecin; intense desire to buy him a cuddly stuffed animal - yes, I would totally take him to Build a Bear Workshop), I would put his age around forty. Give or take a decade. But he has a really hard look about him; some of his expressions seem to say, 'I've seen some shit in my life, and if you ask me about any of it, I'll unleash it on your head.' Basically, he could be younger than he looks. I'm just not sure.

Well, night's getting on, and I want to make my boys comfortable. Sam's got first watch again. I don't think he's too keen on the Orc, but since we've had no trouble from him, grumbling has been confined to those 'bonding' moments at the communal urinal. I'm sure Sam'll have plenty to say when Gollum arrives. The Orc doesn't know what Frodo's carrying, after all, so he's not paying either Hobbit as much glowering attention as he's blessing me with. I'm not sure if knowledge about our mission would change his behavior, and I'm not brave enough to find out.


	17. Roll That Beautiful Bean Footage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 29, 3019

It was bound to happen sooner or later. When cornered by direct questioning, the Zoop breaks like post-beans-consumption wind. And like all things, the dispensation of spoilers has consequences.

We're taking a moment to huddle in a bedraggled bunch among the rocks until this storm breaks because when you're already lost and miserable, it's one of Nature's Laws that you get rained on as well. It's also a Zoop Law that childish behavior tends to cause a dispensation of Zoop Snark©. While we were 'relaxing,' Frodo asked The Question That Set Off the Bomb:

 **Frodo:** Zoop*... can you tell us, if you are able... what has become of our cousins? And the others?

 **Me:** Um... I'm not sure I should tell you.

 **Frodo:** I recall what you said, that... if we knew what would befall us, we might seek to change it, and so lead us to ruin, but... surely we are far enough from our friends that... knowing their fate... We surely can't do them harm from here, can we?

 **Me:** Well, _technically_... Um... [waffling and wavering] I really shouldn't...

 **Sam** : Will we see them again? And not 'at the end of all things,' if you catch my meaning.

 **Me** : [weak will breaking down] Okay... yes, you'll see them again.

 **Frodo** : [pressing] All of them?

 **Me** : [hemming] [hawing] Mostly.

 **Frodo:** Merry and Pippin?

 **Me** : [miserable nodding]

 **Frodo** : [sigh] [nod] Thank you.

 **Sam** : [relieved] So the Orcs didn't get them. Good.

 **Me** : [uncomfortable glance toward _our_ Orc]

 **Sam** : [suspicious] Or did they?

 **Me:** [embarrassed] Weeellll...

 **Frodo:** [alarmed] Did they?

 **Orc:** [suspicious stink-eye]

 **Sam** : If those dirty Orcs so much as laid a finger on them...

 **Orc** : [threatening growl]

 **Sam:** Now don't you go getting yourself worked up. They're our _kin_ , not that such a thing has any meaning for _your_ like...

 **Orc:** [earth-shattering, completely full of piss-and-vinegar roar] [lurches awkwardly at Sam]

 **Me:** [stepping in because I'm sitting between them] Hey! Settle down or I'm putting you both in a time out! Sam, that was completely rude. You apologize right now.

 **Sam:** [grumbling] Sorry.

 **Me** : [to Orc] You calm the hell down. This is _exactly_ what I'm trying to do: help people like Sam understand people like you. But if you don't _tell_ us anything, we're going to keep thinking the same stupid things about your people. So knock off the defensive posturing and _talk to us_ , all right? _Jesus._

 **Orc:** [snarling] _Fuck_ you.

 **Me:** [sarcasm] Oh, that's constructive. Thanks for that. You know something? That entire band of yours that attacked us? _They're dead_. That's right. All of them. That's what you get for pissing across Rohan in the open. _Twice_.

 **Orc:** [startled] [rallies] Doesn't matter. There are thousands...

 **Me** : [Zoop Snark©] All of whom will be dead in a matter of days. You come after Hobbits, you pay the price.

 **Orc** : [floored, flummoxed, and flabbergasted]

 **Frodo:** Is this true? The Orcs came after _us_? Is that what you are saying?

 **Me:** [deflate] [realize the whoops] Well... _you_ , actually. 'Halflings' in general, but... you.

 **Sam:** [math wiz] They got a hold of Merry and Pippin, instead of us.

 **Me:** [lame, helpless shrug] That's basically... yes, they did.

 **Frodo** : Oh no. [shuts eyes] [bows head]

 **Me:** [encouraging] It's okay, though. By now, they're free. None the worse for wear, in fact. [concedes] Okay, a little roughed up, but otherwise fine.

 **Frodo:** [encouraged] So they are safe?

 **Me** : Yeah.

 **Orc:** [strained] How do you know these things?

 **Sam** : [filterless boob] She's from the future or somesuch. Knows what all will happen.

 **Me** : [glares at Sam] [sarcasm] Nicely done.

 **Orc:** [tight jaw clench] You say... all... all... thousands of Orcs... dead. Isengard...

 **Me:** [snark goes bye-bye] [nod] Merry and Pippin – the other Halflings with us – escaped and... ran into... a tree.

 **Sam:** [confused] What?

 **Me** : [sigh] [resigned] Remember what Merry told you about the Old Forest? How the trees seemed to move around? They found a mover.

 **Frodo:** [startled] [slightly freaked out] How do you know that?

 **Me:** Because you told me. In here. [digs out copy of LOTR] You did what Bilbo did, and wrote down your adventures. I know what will happen because _you told me_.

 **Frodo:** [second math wiz reveals himself] So... I, at least, will live. [not sure he likes that conclusion]

 **Me:** [well, shit] Yeah. Oh, what the hell, _all four of you_ will live. Merry and Pippin are the ones who tell you all about the fun, exciting time the others are having while you're off in boring old Mordor.

 **Frodo:** [gasping for breath] [slight smile] That is a relief.

 **Sam:** It sure is. [frowns] [nods toward Orc] What about him? What's going to happen to him? Begging your pardon, but... I'm sure you weren't supposed to be here, and... well... now _he_ is...

 **Me:** [how the hell do I get into these pickles?] That just makes things more interesting. As for him, I will do whatever it takes to keep him alive. Understand? It's my fault he's here. He didn't ask for this. He's my responsibility, and I take those pretty damn seriously.

 **Frodo:** I am certain Sam isn't suggesting we slay him...

 **Sam:** Seems to me you went and saved him from getting killed in any case.

 **Me:** [shrugs] Well, _technically..._

 **Orc:** Release me.

 **Me:** [startled] What?

 **Orc:** [grits teeth] Let me go.

 **Me:** [gently] You can't stop what's going to happen. [pause] [delicately] Do you... have... family in Isengard?

 **Orc:** [stiffens] [hesitates] I don't know.

 **Me:** [nods] I guess... Saruman didn't really... tell you things like... who your parents were, and likely...

 **Orc:** [flares hotly] [MASSIVE stink-eye] _I know who my parents are_.

 **Me:** [struggling to get foot out of mouth] Oh. So... why did you say... you didn't know if you had family in Isengard?

 **Orc:** [commences silent treatment]

 **Me:** [accepts defeat... for now] It's okay. Sorry, I just... I want to know about your life.

 **Orc** : [hits the pause button on silent treatment] So you can use it against me?

 **Me** : [shakes head] No. So I can understand you. You as an individual, a person. You as an Orc. You as an Orc who... lived in Isengard. You have inside you a great story that nobody will ever hear, because right now, nobody thinks they should care. _I_ care. I want others to realize _they_ should care, too.

 **Orc:** [resumes silent treatment] [but with uncertain expression]

Well, we're about out of time, folks. The weather has broken a bit and Sam's itching to put his Elven rope to good use. I'm going to have to untie the Orc for our descent from the Emyn Muil. I want to believe he'll stay with us, and not just so he can kill us, so wish me luck. Either I've convinced him that there's nothing for him to go 'home' to, or that he's got nothing left to lose. I'll let you know which way it goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Yes, they all call me Zoop. It's utterly precious.


	18. Bitter, Obsessed Old Bastards Arrive Precisely When They Mean To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Same Damn Day

We managed to get down the cliff with only minor rope burns (in everyone else's case – my hands are in bandage mittens), but now we're halted by a fissure too dark to navigate with only a sliver of a moon shining. While the Hobbits make small talk, allow me to report on the condition of my Orc friend.

Scowling and perpetually silent right next to me. Hands free and everything, because I felt really shitty about tying him back up after he agreed not to kill us if I let him climb down on his own, as opposed to getting lowered like cargo. And for the record, he didn't so much as flinch when holding the Elven rope. I'm pretty sure that means Gollum's a drama queen.

As an aside, Gollum hasn't shown up yet, but I'm sure he isn't far. Probably still trying to work out the WTF over the Orc we're chummy with.

Anyway, more importantly, I got a crap-ton more out of him. Including his name, which is Ufkoth. That is, that's what it would be in Black Speech. When he actually says it, it comes out 'fear claw' in my ears. Thank you, annoying god damned internal translator.

Before I set him loose, though, I had a lengthy conversation with him that went something like this:

 **Me:** I have a proposition for you.

 **Orc:** Not interested.

 **Me:** Hear me out. You've probably figured out that we need to get down this cliff, and you're not going to get far with your hands tied. So I propose this: I'll untie you, and you can climb down with us.

 **Orc:** [hostile] Do I have a choice?

 **Me** : As a matter of fact, you do. I confess, I'm very curious about you, but I don't want to hold you against your will. The tying up business was for our protection. If you want to leave, I won't stop you. But I want you to consider something.

 **Orc:** [suspicious] What?

 **Me:** Believe it or not, you're safer with us.

 **Orc:** [scoffing grunt]

 **Me:** No, really. You run across Rohan to get back to Isengard _now_ , and you won't make it. Rohan's on a war footing; anything that moves across those plains is being watched. Unless you know that place like the back of your hand, you won't go unnoticed. Come with us, and I think I can guarantee that _if_ you see things through to the end – there and back again, as it were – there will be a place for you.

 **Orc:** [sneer] Yes, a cold, dark place with chains. I have heard this promise before.

 **Me:** _No,_ I... wait, what?

 **Orc:** [sneer] 'Join me. My enemies are _your_ enemies. Fight them for me, and you shall have a share of the spoils. A place to call your own.' [spit] _Lies._

 **Me:** [dumbfounded] Uh... Who...?

 **Orc:** [stink-eye] [silent treatment]

 **Me** : [guessing] Um... did Saruman tell you that?

 **Orc** : [seething]

 **Me:** [deep breath] Okay, this isn't getting us anywhere. Let's try again. I'll just come right out and say it: I'm hoping to start the ball rolling on peaceful coexistence between Men and Orcs.

 **Orc:** [WTF]

 **Me** : I know, it sounds pretty far-fetched. [probing] I mean... that sort of thing doesn't ever happen, does it?

 **Orc:** You know _nothing._

 **Me:** You're right, I don't. Why don't you tell me? Why did Saruman seek out your clan?

 **Orc:** [anger building] We ate our vengeance for too many years. It was _owed_. My clan, blinded by promises, accepted his terms and led us to Isengard.

 **Me:** [carefully] Evidently, these promises weren't kept.

 **Orc:** [stink-eye] [sarcasm] _No_. They were not.

 **Me:** [nod] [concede] And therefore, you assume _my_ promise is also a lie.

 **Orc** : [sneer] Isn't it?

 **Me** : [withering] Well now, you know I'm going to say, 'No, of course not!' Look, believe me or not, trust me or not, all I can do is keep on telling you...* Oh crap, now I feel like I should burst into song.

 **Orc:** [startled] What?

 **Me:** [inspired] Hold it! Don't move! Stay right as you are. [scrambles for sketchbook and pencil]

_**10-15 MINUTE MAD SKETCHING INTERLUDE IN THE DARK** _

**Me:** [beaming] There. What do you think? [show picture to Orc]

 **Orc** : [stunned speechless]

 **Me:** [falter] Okay, I'm not _great_ , but... that's what I see when I look at you. And look, here's the first one I drew. [show other picture]

 **Orc:** [uncertain] This... is me?

 **Me:** [eager nod] Yeah. I don't see a monster or an animal. I see a person. A person who's had some rough times. We've all had them. I mean, god. Look at Frodo over here. That poor guy got stabbed by a Ringwraith. You think _you've_ had a bad day.

 **Orc:** [shoots 'no fucking way' look at Frodo]

 **Frodo:** [nods] It's true. I have quite an ugly scar, in fact.

 **Me:** And maybe, another time, we'll all disrobe and compare scars, but for now, let's just take his word for it, shall we?

 **Orc:** [looks from Frodo to me and back] You are... a Halfling?

 **Frodo:** Well, we call ourselves Hobbits, but some say Halfling, yes.

 **Me:** [wry smile] Tougher than they look. Some of them are pretty good at stirring up trouble, too. [wink at Frodo]

 **Orc:** [deep frown] How is it – [looks Frodo and Sam over] – someone like you can defeat Saruman?

 **Me:** [fake throat clearing] _Spoilers_.

 **Frodo:** I do not know. [smiles at me] Yet given what became of our adventure in Moria, I suspect Pippin is involved somehow.

 **Me** : [mutter] You got that right.

 **Frodo** : [curious] Orc, you say you were with a clan.

 **Orc** : [suspicious] Yes.

 **Frodo:** [slips on his lineage-obsessed Hobbit hat] Had you any brothers or sisters?

 **Orc:** [wary stink-eye] Four and three.

 **Me:** [surprised] Wow. Big family.

 **Orc** : [looks away]

 **Me** : [gently] I'm really sorry about... I swear, if I'd known... Not that I could've done much, but... I would've tried.

 **Orc:** [glaring] [clenched jaw] I have not seen anyone from my clan for ten years.

 **Me** : [stunned] Oh. So... you really _don't_ know if... [nod] Okay. I'm going out on a limb here, and guessing that Saruman did that. [swift math] It would be stupid to call you all there, then kill you. So... he must have... separated you? Spread you out? Is that what he did?

 **Orc:** [closes eyes] [looks away]

 **Me** : That asshole. Still out on that limb, I'll venture to guess you don't much like him, do you?

 **Orc** : [grimace] [growl] I hate him.

 **Me:** Then help us. Maybe we can't do anything to Saruman from here, but we _can_ stick it to his boss.

 **Orc:** [WTF]

 **Sam:** [nod] Right enough. That is what we're about. We're going all the way to Mordor to...

 **Me** : [clears throat _really_ loudly] [shoots 'shut the fuck up' look at Sam] [to Orc] Are you with us? We poke the Eye hard enough, and Saruman'll feel it clear across Rohan.

 **Orc:** [wavering] And you... you will make a place for me.

 **Me:** Not just you. _All_ Orcs, and Orc-kind. So clans – _families_ – aren't torn apart ever again.

 **Frodo:** [softly] What is your name?

 **Orc** : [wary] [eyes darting to each of us]

 **Me** : [innocently] We could call you 'Dude' if you like. Can you bowl?

 **Orc:** [WTF look to me] [to Frodo] Ufkoth.

Long story short (too late), he agreed to come with us thanks to brave Frodo of the Nine Plus One Fingers. While no Vanna White-esque presentation of the Ring was made, Frodo managed to convey our basic purpose without giving too much away, but enough for Ufkoth to believe we stood a chance in hell at succeeding. So he knows we're going to Mordor, we're going to inflict some tactical damage, and it's unlikely we'll be noticed before it's too late because there are only a few of us, as opposed to a giant frickin' army. Apparently, the idea of stealthy, back door approaches is very familiar to him.

I will definitely be coming after Ufkoth with multiple follow-up questions about all the low-hanging fruit he exposed during that exchange, trust me. Just the idea of a _clan_ made up of the kind of people who could produce an Orc/Man hybrid... and he had tons of siblings, too!

But honestly, while part of me is just giddy with all these lovely discoveries, I'm looking at his face right now and just agonizing for him. He has no idea where his family is, if they're still in Isengard, if they're still _alive_. Even _before_ now, he didn't know for sure. If it was remotely safe to do so, and it would do a bit of good, I'd run with him all the way back to Isengard and put a stop to Treebeard's terra-forming project. Or at least urge a more... surgical approach.

Ah hell, guess whose skinny ass just got spotted? Ooo, let's all hide, then when he skulks closer, we can jump out and yell, 'Surprise!' I think I've got a taser somewhere in my bag...

* * *

_Sketch in the dark - which is a good enough excuse for the poor quality. :D_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Honestly, do I have to give you the rest? It's "Two Out of Three Ain't Bad" by Meatloaf. ;)


	19. And Then Zoop Broke the Plot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February 30, 3019 (I have no control over these dates, people)

Well, _fuck_. I can't assign this massive screw-up to anyone but me, but I'll be damned if I'm letting posterity imply ulterior motives or premeditated intent on my part.

It all happened so fast: the Hobbits got the drop on Gollum just like it says in the book, and Sam wound up in dire straits with me and Frodo trying to pry the little fucker off him. Then in comes Ufkoth. I had no idea he'd take our side, even after our lovely heart-to-heart last night. He jumped in, and then Gollum was all over _him_.

Note to self: Do _not_ piss off Ufkoth. I haven't seen a hand-to-hand fight this disturbing since _Saving Private Ryan_.

Sam couldn't get his shit together because he was trying to breathe again, and Frodo's sword got knocked out of his hands by the flailing combatants, so he ran off scrambling for weapons. All I had was a mace, which would undoubtedly pull all kinds of aggro I couldn't possibly repel, so that left the pepper spray. Which I used. On _Gollum_ , in case you're wondering. Ufkoth was suffering from 'I just underestimated how determined that Ring can make a person' syndrome, and starting to come out on the bad side of the fight. I couldn't stand there and do nothing, dammit. So I let Gollum have it right in the face.

Which gave Ufkoth exactly the opportunity he needed.

Back when I was a wee teenager lass, I vividly recall knocking a tennis ball against the side of our house with a racket, over and over again. I lived out in the countryside, and that was the extent of my entertainment that day (this was pre-internet, folks – practically the dark ages). One bounce after another, aiming high so I wouldn't hit the window in the center.

You can guess what happened: I hit the window. I spun around, wanting to believe that by doing so, _the window didn't actually break_. As if I could _un_ break it by not _looking_ at it.

That doesn't work with glass _or_ necks.

As you can imagine, this leaves me in a rather awkward position. Granted, we'll be spared betrayal and 'fat Hobbit' comments and, hopefully, really big spiders, but it could also throw us off completely, date-wise. We _have_ to hit the mountain at a time when the eagles can come pick us up afterwards. But if you think I'm leading this crew through the damned Dead Marshes for no frickin' reason, you're high.

Thank the gods I didn't leave the house without Karen Wynn Fonstad*, because Frodo's guide into Mordor just gained two hundred pounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Karen Wynn Fonstad, author and artist of "The Atlas of Middle-Earth"


	20. Under the Circumstances, There's No Such Thing as a Spoiler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Same damn day

So I gave it some thought while Sam and Frodo built a cairn over the poor bastard, and it looks like I'm going to have to tackle this Gollum-less adventure like I would in my real life day job: Treat it like a high-profile project. I am, after all, an analyst. Figuring out how to alter computer systems and business processes to accommodate major functionality changes is what I do for a living. Like any new endeavor, the first step is a charter.

* * *

**DRAFT CHARTER FOR PROJECT "SAVE MIDDLE EARTH"**

**Problem Statement:**

The primary issue we are facing is the continued and growing threat to successful business operations in Arda (a.k.a. Middle Earth), as represented by the corporate entity known as Sauron, LLC (hereafter referred to as The Eye). This conglomerate has shown a strong tendency toward hostile takeover, using fear tactics and illegal methods of coercion. The Eye has directed its latest efforts towards the Gondor Company, Incorporated, via the home office at Minas Tirith, as the next acquisition in its bid for industry dominance.

Due to the high level of secrecy required for the successful execution of this project, all correspondence must be identified as Confidential.

**Project Objectives:**

1) Thwart the Eye's attempted acquisition of Gondor Company, Incorporated.

2) Initiate corporate dissolution and disperse all assets currently in the Eye's possession, or connected to the Eye in any way.

**Key Stakeholders:**

Impacted parties include, but are not limited to: the 'Free Peoples' of Arda, constituting Elves, Dwarves, Hobbits, and Men; the flora and fauna of Arda, including Ents and other tree-shepherding folk; and Orc-kind, whether descended from or biologically related to the Free Peoples.

**Scope of This Project:**

_**In Scope:** _

_1) Infiltrate Mordor by any means available_

_2) Navigate to Orodruin (a.k.a. Mount Doom)_

_3) Liquidate Primary Asset (a.k.a. The One Ring)_

_4) Assemble at rendezvous point_

_5) Air-lift out of Mordor_

_**Out of Scope:** _

_1) Confront Shelob, spawn of Ungoliant, in her lair_

_2) Needlessly kill, or allow to be killed, any more canon characters_

_3) Allow any member of the project team to fall into the Crack of Doom_

_4) Allow Frodo to lose a finger, even for poetic purposes_

**Assumptions/Constraints/Dependencies:**

_Assumption:_ Modern maps of a fictional world are 100% accurate.

 _Assumption:_ All members of the project team are dedicated resources (i.e. there are no parallel projects in flight that will compromise their performance, availability, or loyalty).

 _Assumption:_ The successful completion of this project will initiate a chain reaction that will accomplish the overall project objectives.

 _Constraint:_ The project manager (a.k.a. PM) assigned to this project is an arachnophobe.

 _Dependency:_ A subject matter expert (a.k.a. SME) is required to assist in satisfying in-scope item #1.

**Key Risks:**

If a satisfactory and low-risk means of accomplishing in-scope item #1 is not found, a change request must be submitted and standard change management protocols followed in order to move out-of-scope item #1 into scope. It must be noted that the PM is unlikely to sign off on this change request except under duress. (Refer to Constraints.)

An essential member of the project team is expected to resist in-scope item #3. This individual's resistance will increase the closer we get to the target implementation date. A mitigation strategy must be defined very soon to manage this risk before it is realized and becomes an issue.

One member of the project team is a new hire and must be ramped up on the project objectives. It is unknown at this time if he will remain with the project following full disclosure. Recommendation: Omit references to in-scope item #3 until such time as the questionable team member has fully committed to the project. Mitigation: If the team member opts to leave the project, he is to be restrained and compelled to accompany the team until such time as a suitable facility is found to hold him. Though he does not fall under the jurisdiction of out-of-scope item #2, he is nevertheless a person.

**Roles and Responsibilities:**

_**Allocated Project Team Members:** _

Frodo Baggins (a.k.a Ringbearer) – Responsible for carrying the Primary Asset to the target location and performing in-scope item #3.

Samwise Gamgee (a.k.a. Gardener) – Responsible for carrying the Ringbearer in the event that he is immobilized. Designated as Assistant Ringbearer should the need for a substitute arise.

Ufkoth (a.k.a. Bewildered Participant) – Responsible for not hindering the execution of the project objectives in any way.

Zoop (a.k.a. Reluctant Project Manager) – Responsible for ensuring the successful completion of the project and satisfaction of all success criteria by the target implementation date.

_**External Team Members Needed:** _

Subject Matter Expert: Experienced Ranger familiar with the terrain in the mountainous region of Ithilien and the Ephel Dúath to assist with in-scope item #1. Recommendation: Faramir son of Denethor II. (Note key milestones for Faramir's assumed whereabouts.) (Critical)

Subject Matter Expert: Experienced local guide to assist with in-scope item #2. Recommendation: TBD. (Optional)

Air Transport Providers: Eagles under the command of Gwaihir, guided by Gandalf the White to assist with in-scope item #5. (Critical)

**Target Implementation Date:**

March 25, 3019

**Key Milestones:**

March 1, 3019 – Faramir leaves Minas Tirith for Ithilien

March 7, 3019 – Original date of meeting with Faramir near Henneth Annûn

March 10, 3019 – Dawnless Day; Faramir returns to Minas Tirith

March 15, 3019 – Battle of Pelennor Fields

March 24, 3019 – Forces of the West camp on the Desolation of the Morannon

**Critical Success Criteria:**

1) Project Team Members Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee survive

2) Primary Asset is liquidated

3) The Eye is thwarted

4) Surviving Project Team Members are retrieved from rendezvous point

* * *

I think this oughta do it. I've scheduled a team meeting to review the charter and agree on the scope. While I'm disappointed in the facilities – no overhead projector _or_ flip charts – I'm fairly confident that the document speaks for itself. Wish me luck; it's always harder to win over the stakeholders when you don't have a basket of chocolate on hand.


	21. Cats and Dogs Living Together, But No Mass Hysteria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March 1, 3019

It sucks all to hell, finding out that between you and your goal is a huge swamp full of dead people, and it'll be really damned difficult to avoid it. The nearest I can manage is a southerly route in hopes of skirting the western edge, then cutting eastward across what the map says is a sort of dry stretch between two monstrous piles of marshland.

The charter review meeting last evening had a mixed reception. I didn't call particular attention to the Ring, for obvious reasons, and glossed over the risks in general terms. Okay, I flat out didn't mention any of them. I'm taking the stance that the risks in this endeavor are mine to manage. I can only hope Ufkoth doesn't go all Boromir on us. He's pretty big.

Speaking of Ufkoth, I dragged some stunningly juicy tidbits out of him. Or he was just pissed enough to dish. Coincidentally, about dishes, in the food preference sense. You see, he ate his last meat ration this morning, and Sam made a comment:

 **Sam** : If you're still hungry, there's _lembas_.

 **Ufkoth** : [stink-eye] No. I am not hungry enough to eat _ass_. [shoots me a hostile look]

 **Me** : [mild 'fuck you' glance]

 **Sam** : [huffs] It's not _that_ bad. A sight better than what you've got, I'll warrant.

 **Ufkoth** : [sneer] I prefer meat.

 **Sam** : Well, you won't be getting any more of _that_ sort of meat, so you'd better get used...

 **Ufkoth** : [royally pissed] [holds up shriveled meat strip] What do you think this is?

 **Sam** : [sassy] I'd rather not say.

 **Me** : [mom] All right, that's enough. Let it go, Sam. I think he grasps that eating man-flesh isn't an acceptable practice while he's...

 **Ufkoth** : [colossally fucking pissed] [nuclear detonation imminent] [3...] _**My**_ _clan did not eat it! We_ _ **never**_ _ate it!_

 **Sam/Frodo/Me** : [stunned]

 **Me** : [timidly] [calming] Okay. It's just that... by all accounts, Saruman fed you...

 **Ufkoth** : [2...] _I don't fucking eat man-flesh! I have_ _ **never**_ _eaten man-flesh!_

 **Sam/Frodo** : [scooting back]

 **Me** : [stupidly] But... you _could_ have...

 **Ufkoth** : [1...] _He fed his_ _ **Uruk-hai**_ _man-flesh! He made_ _ **them**_ _hunger for it!_

 **Me** : [palming pepper spray can] Are you saying... you're not... Uruk-hai?

 **Ufkoth** : [explodes] _**I... AM NOT... URUK-HAI!**_

[lengthy pause] [watch Ufkoth gasp, twitch, and quiver from minimum safe distance]

_***** PAUSE FOR COMMERCIAL BREAK ***** _

**Me** : [quietly] What are you, then? By _your_ definition?

 **Ufkoth** : [gathers shit] [calms self] [perhaps engages internal debate]

 **Frodo** : [calming] You are welcome to share our rations. And perhaps if we find...

 **Sam** : [joining in] Coneys. We're bound to come across'em this time of year. Poking their noses out to have a sniff of the air. That'll be a nice change once in awhile, won't it?

 **Me** : [awkward] Ufkoth. [he darts a wary look at me] Tell us about yourself. Who you are. Where you came from. All we have are guesses. I swear, we're not trying to poke fun at you or piss you off. We've got a long road ahead of us; we need to come together. Can you do that?

 **Ufkoth** : [growl] I did not ask for this.

 **Me** : [nods] [gently] I know.

 **Ufkoth** : [hesitates] I am an _Orc._

 **Me** : [delicately] Don't take this the wrong way, but... what were your parents?

 **Ufkoth** : [narrows eyes] [curls lip] My da was a Man; mum was an Orc.

 **Me** : [uncertain] So... what are the Uruk-hai made of?

 **Ufkoth** : [sneer] Blood and shit.

 **Me** : [wry] You're not too fond of them, are you?

 **Ufkoth** : [snort] Arrogant pigs. They are made the same way I was: Orc and Man. Because I was not made _in_ Isengard, I was less than they.

 **Me** : [fascinated] Did Saruman treat you differently, or...?

 **Ufkoth** : [growl] [distasteful hiss] Saruman. He knows nothing of Orcs. He thinks we are all the same. He called me Uruk-hai; his 'pets' did not. [pause] [ _very_ aggressive snarl] I do _not_ eat the flesh of Men.

 **Me** : Okay. That's a relief. But... I'm curious...

 **Ufkoth** : [snarl] What now?

 **Me** : Your grandparents. What were they?

 **Ufkoth** : [low-grade stink-eye] My da's father was an Orc; his mum was Mannish. My mum's parents were both Orcs.

 **Me** : [starting to get a picture] So... this clan of yours... Orcs and Men living together... in relative peace? Enough to... intermarry?

 **Ufkoth** : [snarl] Yes.

 **Me** : [stunned] Wow. [turn to Hobbits] Oh my god, guys. This... this is a beautiful thing, right here. Do you understand what he's saying?

 **Frodo** : [math whiz] Men and Orcs have learned to live with one another.

 **Me** : Yeah. Here I was thinking it was a completely foreign concept, unknown in this world. But... [gesture at Ufkoth] _look at him_. He's the end result of a couple of _generations_ of Men and Orcs living together. _In peace_ , no less. You don't call yourself a 'clan' if half the members are assholes. It's all for one and one for all.

 **Sam** : [ever the skeptic] What sort of Men, though? The kind who're no better'n they should be?

 **Ufkoth** : [growl] [stink-eye level increasing]

 **Me** : [emergency subject change] I think we should probably look for a place to camp, you think?

Not gonna lie, totally excited about these bits and pieces Ufkoth drops when harassed. Now I'm wondering if the reason why Saruman contacted his clan in particular was because the 'ancient method of Orc breeding' was a natural occurrence there, and they'd already found that perfect balance of Mannish and Orcish traits the old bastard was looking for. In which case, the 'native Isengarders' oughta shut the fuck up, because the original blueprint didn't come from Isengard.

Oh shit. Did Saruman take these clans and break them apart? _All_ of them? Because there can't have just been one. There _had_ to be more. I hope Ufkoth knows. But I think I'll let him cool down some more before asking.


	22. Better Than Tin Foil Hats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March 2, 3019

I think I've hit on the best possible way to circumvent the Ring's influence on Frodo: singing. I can't recall now how we got on the subject while trudging through this cesspit (the 'strip of non-dead-marshy-land between two _extremely_ dead marshy patches' turned out to have more than its fair share of corpse water), but Sam is now my go-to guy for breaking up uncomfortable silences. Put one little bug in his ear about cheering up, and he bursts into Broadway musicals. Or he would if he knew some. That's now on my list to teach him, starting with _What a Piece of Work is Man_ because I really don't think he'd be on board for a verse or two of _Sodomy*_. He just doesn't seem like the type, contrary to popular belief.

In any case, he led a half-hearted Frodo in some foot-tappy little tavern number they both knew, then Sam asked what sort of music we sing in _my_ world. Oh honey, you just pulled the pin, didn't you?

Zoop Confession Time: I am a closet torch singer. My singing debut was a high school musical, _granted_ , but once I got over the stage fright, I had a great time. When me and the kids are in the car, we're blasting the radio and singing our hearts out. It's scary as hell.

And Sam unwittingly asked me to unleash my inner diva. That's like asking Merry if he knows anything about pipeweed.

Naturally, I started off with bouncy and fun. I got the boys (Ufkoth refused to play and just glared, daring me to come near him with my silliness so he could introduce me to his fists) to clap me in, and launched into _Locomotion**_. Once I had their (stunned) attention, I let'em have it with _Run Runaway***_. I even smacked out the drumbeat on my legs.

You can probably guess that Middle Earth music differs _massively_ from modern music. You might also consider my selections to be only marginally classifiable as 'modern,' yuh whippersnappers. Have I not mentioned that I'm an old fart?

Now, up to this point, Frodo has been gradually getting grimmer and more distant. He has _occasionally_ jumped in with a comment or two, but doesn't often get into conversations. He's dead tired, let's be honest. But he'll chat with Ufkoth. Frankly, I think Ufkoth fascinates the hell out of him. The feeling appears to be mutual; after all, Frodo survived a Nazgûl poke. That's pretty impressive.

But it shouldn't really be a surprise. I mean, Frodo was supposed to lavish Gollum with compassion and whatnot. He's just... aiming it at someone else this go-round.

And eventually I get around to the point. The _point_ is, Frodo cheered _way_ up when I got going. Don't get me wrong: I should not quit my day job. There is no _America's Got Talent_ performance in my future. I can carry a tune for a short distance in a bucket, but that's it. Regardless, it was good enough to get a smile on Frodo's face, and when I really hammed it up, he laughed. We're plodding through a marshland with dead people in the water, and he _laughed_. When we stopped to camp, he noted that his heart felt lighter. So even if it means getting Ufkoth into a headlock to sing my "ooga chaka" background vocals****, I'm going to keep the tunes coming. And cross my fingers that laughter is, indeed, One Ring Kryptonite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * What a Piece of Work is Man and Sodomy – musical numbers from Hair
> 
> ** Locomotion – Grand Funk Railroad (the only version worth singing)
> 
> *** Run Runaway – Slade
> 
> **** "ooga chaka" – from Hooked on a Feeling by Blue Suede (again, the only version worth singing)


	23. The Obligatory Bath Scene*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March 3, 3019

I'm taking advantage of my late night watch to jot down some things. We finally reached the end of the Dead Marshes, and found ourselves in what must be Northern Ithilien. It's a relief to be under the cover of trees; towards evening, we saw a Nazgûl fly overhead on his fancy shmancy winged beast. I had to sing a verse of _A Wizard's Staff Has a Knob on the End*_ * to keep Frodo from slipping on the Ring. Stopped him right in his tracks. Probably more from shock than amusement, but I'll still call it a win.

Anyway, we found a nice little stream and assailed the poor, unsuspecting water source with four stenched-out bodies recently emerged from a muddy swamp full of dead things. Because 'there's a lady present,' nobody dropped trou', but we all got those pits scrubbed good and hard. And here's where Zoop lost her adventurer's shit and went all mom on the Orc.

It's easy throwing in 'he got whipped a lot' as part of a character's backstory, and not give it much thought about what it looks like beyond what old tintypes of former slaves in America's delightful history can tell. Seeing someone right next to you, someone who has managed to endear himself in spite of his best efforts to the contrary, whose back is laddered with ropey scars... It brings a Zoop to tears, is what it does. If my son was an adult and an Orc, he'd be Ufkoth in this scenario. Call it the need to be someone's mom, after so long in that capacity. Apparently an abused back has a similar effect on Hobbits, because both boys were suddenly all solicitous and concerned. Ufkoth thought we'd lost our minds.

Sam was shocked into speechless staring, and Frodo asked if he could have a closer look, though his face showed more 'omg you poor thing' than _schadenfreude_ about it. Ufkoth gave him a suspicious look, and seemed to debate allowing himself to be put on display, then shrugged and turned. I sidled up next to Frodo and we looked him over.

I remember thinking to myself, _holy crap, some of these are so well healed they're almost too hard to see_. Like they were given a _long_ time ago. Others were raised and ropey, like they weren't stitched properly if at all, and left to maybe fester a bit. There were also a few that had recently scabbed over.

Frodo quietly mentioned that he had a scar from when he was a boy, and it looked like some of the thin ones. That got me to thinking – how old was he when the whip first descended? With my completely lame grasp of anatomy and biology, I would speculate that the skin heals better from damage the younger it is, and has a bit of trouble recovering the older it gets. In the absence of internet out here in the wilds, I'll have to mark that down for googling when I get home.

Of course, I had to ask his age. I mean, his face is rugged and very 'adult'-looking. Like the blush of youth has long left his countenance to be replaced by anger and bitterness. I noted before that he looks fortyish or somewhere in that vicinity. I was floored when he finally admitted (under intensely annoying questioning) to being twenty years old, and I had to make sure his concept of a year was the same as mine.

Furthermore, after even more interrogation that eventually left him huffing and swearing under his breath in a corner, I learned that he was ten years old when his clan went to Isengard. He left behind everything he knew, and went to a dark, dismal place where all the rules had changed. He had a hell of a struggle adjusting to the complete upheaval in his life. Because he was 'officially' the right age to begin training, he was pried from his parents and shunted off to the barracks. By the end of the first week, he'd already been tied to the whipping post a couple of times for not 'getting it.'

He made me think of my own kids, two of whom are about the age he was when he went to Isengard. Imagining those two sass-masters getting what-for in that place made me very uncomfortable, and not a little pissed (belatedly) on Ufkoth's behalf. It's hard enough for my own kids to curb their natural exuberance in a familiar setting, let alone how it must have been for Ufkoth under the boot of a taskmaster who used corporal punishment as a teaching tool.

To his credit, when Sam finally got his tongue working again, he expressed his own clumsy brand of sympathy, commenting that he'd always thought Orcs were evil and did whatever their cruel masters told them to do. To which Ufkoth replied with an extra helping of snark, "We _obey_ because to do otherwise is to _die._ What would _you_ choose, halfling?"

 **Sam** : Well... I've heard... heroes and such... they choose death instead. To spare another from suffering.

 **Ufkoth** : [snide snort] What good does that do? You are dead, and the other suffers all the same. You have done no one any favors by dying.

 **Frodo** : I suppose... the thought is that if you do not cause the suffering yourself, you may die with a clear conscience.

 **Ufkoth** : [grimly amused] And this is of value? When you are dead?

 **Frodo** : [uncertain] Not... when you put it that way, I suppose.

 **Sam** : What do _you_ think about it, then? Causing suffering and whatnot?

 **Ufkoth** : Read the scars on my back, halfling. That should tell you all you need to know.

 **Frodo** : But it _doesn't_. Why were they given? And in such great number? What did you do?

 **Ufkoth** : [growling] I did not know my place, so I was whipped until I learned it. When I forgot it, I was whipped until I remembered. When I did not know the rules, I was whipped as they were told to me. When I forgot them, I was whipped to jog my memory.

 **Sam** : [horrified] Did they have at you when you were just a lad, then?

 **Ufkoth** : [nodding] No one in the barracks was spared the lash, not even lads like I was.

 **Frodo** : What rules were you supposed to follow?

 **Ufkoth** : [sighing] [counts on fingers] One: Do not question orders. Two: Let the weak die. Three: Shut your fucking mouth. Four: Thinking is for officers, not pisspots and grunts like you.

 **Frodo/Sam** : [exchange questioning looks]

 **Frodo** : [hesitant] But... didn't you... help us? When we were attacked, you didn't... let us die. And we are certainly weaker than you.

 **Ufkoth** : [swallows uncomfortably] Look at my back again. [pause] You faced a Nazgûl, and lived. [shakes head] You are not weak.

 **Me** : [softly] You didn't follow the rules much, did you?

 **Ufkoth** : [looks away] I already had rules. Saruman did not have the right to make me disobey my father.

Oh crap. I just heard something. God dammit, if there's something nasty roaming these woods that Tolkien didn't bother to tell us about –

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Damn near all my fics have a bath scene. Getting the characters naked usually breaks the ice. I highly recommend it.
> 
> ** That's a classic tavern song in Ankh-Morpork. Apologies to Terry Pratchett.


	24. Enter The Faramir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March 5, 3019

_Finally_ , I can jot down a few notes. It turns out that the 'scary monster' rustling around the bushes was one of North Ithilien's Finest – a Ranger. This guy's introduction to our little campsite was like a series of dominoes tipping over in one of those elaborate displays that starts with one and spreads out over an airplane hangar's floor and unexpectedly sets off multiple fireworks, urging the exclamation, 'Well, _that_ escalated quickly.' First he pulled a sword on me and demanded what I was doing here. His big mouth woke everyone else, and we had the 'WTF are those' over the Hobbits, followed by the 'holy shit battlestations people we have an Orc here get the firehose omg where's my backup?' Before I got 'calm your tits, it's just Ufkoth' out of my mouth, we were surrounded by extremely pissed Men in capes and hoodies ( _there's_ a fashion statement), swords and bows pointed at us, and a serious threat to someone's clean drawers going on. The Hobbits got collared, Ufkoth was piled on by three and fighting like mad, and I was struggling against Guy #1, trying to get my pepper spray out.

Needless to say, we were not prepared.

It is with complete confidence that I can say, the _only_ reason why Ufkoth didn't get knifed during the fight, or stabbed afterwards, or beheaded on principle, was because all three of us put up _such_ a loud and obnoxious protest that the bloodlust guiding those guys' hands was curbed out of sheer WTF-ery. I personally unleashed a torrent of swear words that very likely introduced them to a whole new world of trash talk and verbal abuse they were hitherto unaware of. If any of them have the good fortune to meet Mr. Tolkien in the afterlife, he'll wash their mouths out with soap if they repeat a single word I said.

You would think that Ufkoth - unarmed and dressed only in a ragged tunic and breeches - possessed the strength of titans, the cunning of Loki, and the _thu'um_ of dragons, the way they trussed him up. Over our continued and _loud_ protestations, I might add. Then we found ourselves frog-marched into The Presence of The Faramir.

I would like to take this opportunity to note that, while Faramir is grim and serious, he's also thoughtful, and clearly a student of Gandalf's. In other words, he didn't spit Ufkoth over a roaring fire at first blush. He let us talk, and once the boys and I were calm enough not to shriek, we explained him a thing or three.

 **Faramir:** I have never seen a woman traveling alone in these parts. What is your business here?

 **Me:** Um... I'm not traveling 'alone.' I have my... retinue with me.

 **Faramir** : [startled] 'Retinue'?

 **Me:** [dignified] Yes, _retinue._

 **Faramir:** [uncertain pause] Two halflings and an Orc... are your _retinue_?

 **Me:** [shrug] I'm on a tight budget.

Did I mention before that I'm completely done with worrying about spoilers? Of course I did. I know Faramir won't rat us out or take the Ring, so I clued him in on the highlights of our mission. Mentioned the dream he and his brother shared. ('Yeah, _these_ are the halflings! How exciting is that?') He responded with the expected, but no less depressing, revelation of his vision, indicating that the story carried on and Boromir floated toes up down the Anduin after all.

I had no justification, dream-sourced or what-have-you, for Ufkoth. Pretty much just shrugged and smiled innocently over that question.

We spent almost all of yesterday talking until our throats hurt. The only break we got was when Faramir removed Ufkoth's gag and started talking to _him_. Well, first Ufkoth felt compelled to describe in vivid detail just how questionable Faramir's family tree was, who was _likely_ his father out of a long list of admittedly far-fetched but no less hilarious candidates, the exact method he was going to employ in draining the Man's blood, what he planned on doing with the blood after he'd gotten a hold of it, and if Faramir would be kind enough to untie his hands, as a special treat, he'd introduce the Man to a wide variety of anally-inserted devices Faramir clearly didn't previously think could be employed in that specific office.

I didn't know whether to blush, shit, or laugh.

Faramir took it like a pro, though. When Ufkoth ran out of air, and presumably new torture ideas to float for review, Faramir asked him why he was helping us. What was in it for _him_? Maybe because Ufkoth was too worn out to be a snarky pain in the ass – or it finally dawned on him that he only got one bye in the shithead category, after which cooperation and civility were required to keep him alive – he took a deep breath and began to talk.

 **Ufkoth:** They freed me.

 **Faramir:** [surprised] Did they? You were a slave?

 **Ufkoth:** [glower] [sarcasm] We are _all_ slaves.

 **Faramir:** All Orcs? Or just those in your company?

 **Ufkoth:** All.

 **Faramir:** I have sometimes heard that Orcs are slaves, yet it seems they pursue foul ends for their own amusement.

 **Ufkoth:** [shrug] Some do.

 **Faramir:** If you truly are slaves, who is your master?

 **Ufkoth:** [teeth clenched] Saruman.

 **Faramir:** [startled] But... is he not one of the Wise? A member of the White Council? A colleague of Mithrandir's?

 **Me:** Yeah, well... you know... He works for a different corporation now.

 **Faramir:** I beg your pardon?

 **Me:** He was seduced by Sauron.

 **Faramir:** [alarmed] I see. How do you come to be in this Orc's company?

 **Me:** [commence brief overview of the basic plotline for the upcoming comedy hit, _How I Met Your Orcling_ ]

 **Faramir:** [thoughtful] You trust this Orc on such an important mission?

 **Frodo:** We do. He has proven himself honorable and trustworthy.

 **Sam:** [raises fists] If you harm a hair on his head, you'll have me to answer to!

 **Faramir:** [startled by mini-me outburst] [to Ufkoth] I confess, it is difficult to accept the notion of a 'trustworthy' Orc. You attacked my men...

 **Ufkoth:** [planet disintegrating explosion] _**Your fucking men attacked ME!**_

 **Me:** [noting hands going to sword hilts] Easy there, big guy. Faramir, he's got a point. We were just sitting there, minding our own business...

 **Faramir:** [stern] ... in a place known to be trafficked by Orcs and Haradrim on their way to the Black Gates. How were we to know you were not in league with the Enemy?

 **Me:** [petulant] Could've asked.

 **Faramir** : I am asking now, and you have told me your aim is to enter Mordor, little different from the armies marching there now. How do you imagine you might accomplish stealthy entry with so many on the march to swell the nameless Enemy's ranks?

 **Me:** Very carefully. But... not without your help.

 **Faramir:** [startled] _My_ help? What aid do you think I can give?

 **Me:** [evil grin]

So last night was spent poring over my Fonstad maps, which knocked our new Ranger friends for a loop when they saw them. There are some flaws, but for the most part, they're pretty accurate depictions of the Ephel Duath. I had to translate everything because these poor bastards only read tengwar, but aside from that...

It turns out that there's a perfectly serviceable path between Minas Morgul and Cirith Ungol that doesn't involve pissing off a giant spider, though it's rather frequently traveled by the Orcs bopping between the two towers. If we're really careful, we just might make it through without alerting Eru and everyone else to our presence. Possibly.

As for Ufkoth, Faramir has been 'interrogating' him at length in a little cubby off to the side. I _knew_ I pegged that man right: he's taking full advantage of this rare opportunity to chat up a real Orc over tea. That is not a joke; they are seriously drinking tea over there. Me and the Hobbits are chilling a bit, now that the threat level has dropped to green. We're freshly washed and clothed, too. Even Ufkoth is wearing decent clothes for once.

FYI, I'm pretty sure the Rangers didn't send us to the Forbidden Pool to bathe, but you never know with these guys.

Frodo started getting fidgety a little while ago, so I recited a couple of dirty limericks that didn't _quite_ go over his head. Pretty much gave him enough pause that he forgot about the Ring for a bit while he tried to work out where Nantucket is.

My expectation is that we'll blow this popsicle stand in the morning, and strike out for that likely well-hidden path. Then it'll be serious time.


	25. Poised on the Brink and Ready to Fling Ourselves Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March 7, 3019

Always, _always_ , adventures aren't complete without a pissing downpour. As anticipated, the Rangers unloaded us like shot from a cannon at their first semi-polite opportunity, and we're now on the road south. There was a mighty large contingent of Men in transit that we had to dodge yesterday, so I wasn't able to write, and today we're holed up in an abandoned ruin to wait out this storm.

It's creepy as hell being this close to Mordor, not gonna lie. Ufkoth has this look on his face that makes me think he's looking for an opportunity. Not to knife one of us, mind you, but to run for the hills. There may be a lot of Orc-ing around in his family tree, but he has no desire to cross these mountains into the Land That Sucks All the Balls. It's getting harder to distract Frodo, too. Sam's beside himself with worry, and keeps looking to me for answers. About all I can do is run through barely recalled gems from the old Doctor Demento show.

According to 'history,' today was the day Frodo and Sam met up with Faramir, so we're ahead by a day or two. If the scrawled notes on my Fonstad map are right, and my ability to properly read our progress isn't completely off, we should be stumbling onto that pass by morning. Then it's up and over the Ephel Duath.

We have the slight advantage of Ufkoth's Orc-detecting nose (we've long since given up on Sting being of any use – the damn thing shines like a beacon 24/7) and remarkably acute hearing. He could hear, and probably smell, a cricket fart from a hundred paces. Speaking of our Orc friend, and while I've got a moment, here's something interesting we learned before parting ways with Faramir.

To begin with, I have selective hearing. I can pick up individual voices in a roomful of varying conversations, but completely missed the gunfire during my wedding. So even though I wasn't in the cubby with Faramir and Ufkoth, I caught phrases and snippets that I did my best to memorize so I could write them down. This is some god-awful shit, I'm tellin' yuh.

 **Ufkoth:** ... saw him once, after. He told me to just... do what I was told. The time for defiance will come; I better be alive when it does. Then he went where he was supposed to go, and I went my way. Never saw him again.

 **Faramir:** And your mother?

 **Ufkoth:** [pause] [thickly] No.

 **Faramir:** Did your father mention her?

 **Ufkoth:** [tightly] Aye. He did. Said he... he got to... to breed with her. Once.

 **Faramir:** [startled] Breed?

 **Ufkoth:** [angry] To make more of Saruman's _Uruk-hai_. [spits] He took some of us for breeding. Didn't care who was mated to who. Da only saw her the one time after we got in there. Cause his name and her name came up for breeding. It was just... luck. Said she was... she was alive. That's about all he'd tell me: she's alive.

 **Faramir:** [subdued] I had no idea.

 **Ufkoth:** [anger rising] Why would you know? Why would you care? We don't mean anything to you. None of us do.

 **Faramir:** Perhaps that was the way of things before. But I have heard your tale, and I cannot see you, or any of your folk, in the same way now. You have opened my eyes, Ufkoth.

 **Ufkoth:** [calming] Don't want to open nobody's eyes. I just want to go home.

 **Faramir:** [tentative] I gather, then... Mordor is not your home?

 **Ufkoth:** [low growl] No. I've no wish to go there.

 **Faramir:** Why do you?

 **Ufkoth:** [pause] The time has come, and I am alive.

As usual, heart breaking for Ufkoth, but I'm extremely glad these things were told to Faramir. He's going to carry that info back to Minas Tirith, and while I don't see him assaulting Osgiliath with flower petals and love beads, perhaps the aftermath of this war won't be so hard on the Orcs. Maybe there will be the kind of pause I'm hoping for, where the Orcs get a chance to regroup and figure out what they want to do with themselves in a world without the Shadow, and Men will hang tight and see what comes of that introspection. As opposed to just bulldozing the lot of them right out of the gate.

Ooo! I think the rain is letting up. Gotta get this wagon train a'movin'. I think I remember most of _Happy Trails._ Maybe that'll get Frodo interested in giving us a verse or two of that wildly popular Baggins number about roads going ever on and on, yuh think?


	26. Anything Star-Lord Can Do, Zoop Can Do Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> March 9, 3019

Well. Things have taken an unexpected turn. The last two days have been... Okay, from the beginning, or I'll lose you.

Yesterday morning, like way damn early, we found the pass. Empty, thank god, so we hoofed it as fast as my fat legs could carry me. Sincerely hoping all the way that all the Orcs in Mordor saw the sun peeking over the mountains and said, 'Fuck this, it's bed time.'

There's always that _one guy_ , isn't there?

Or in this case, two guys. We rounded a bend, and there were two Orcs huddled in serious conference ahead of us. There seemed to be an argument going on with regards to a piece of paper they were looking over. In the deep recesses of my Orc-fancier mind, I squeed, because it could mean they're literate. Not just hatched for the purposes of mayhem, but possibly educated beyond 'heavy blunt end goes whack.' The larger, more in-control part nearly wet itself, because _there were two Orcs ahead of us_. I couldn't seem to fumble my frickin' pepper spray out of my pack before Ufkoth was hefting his sword and assuming a fighting stance.

What'd they look like? Okay – the taller one was wearing several layers of mismatched armor in varying states of disrepair. The shorter, more Goblin-y looking guy was wearing another slapped-together hodge-podge of leather shielding on his arms and legs, plus a filthy-ass tunic that might have been a festive green color at some point in its clearly long military career. Apparently, Sauron isn't about uniformity, or modern equippage, in his army.

Face-wise, they had some serious ugly going on, but not Gothmog-ugly, if you know what I mean. The short one was a carbon copy of the Moria crowd, while the tall one looked like one of the wilder WETA creations from the local branch. Maybe Sauron didn't give them matching uniforms, but they managed to sync up their stink-eyes pretty well when we clattered into view.

Then the weird shit started, because _the end was nigh_. Frodo and Sam clumsily drew swords, and Sting announced our allegience to Elfdom pretty damn loudly. It's possible Ufkoth's presence made the Orcs pause a moment to consider their next move, because we literally stood staring at one another for a few seconds.

I did the thing. I totally did the Star-Lord thing. I was too damn nervous to translate-on-the-fly, so I nailed the entire gang with _Kung Fu Fighting_ in Black Speech*. Complete with hand chopping gestures punctuated with 'HUHN' and 'HYAH.' It was priceless, and quite possibly marginally racist. Jaws dropped on every Orc, including Ufkoth, who hadn't heard me using the Dark Lord's English before.

Which almost blew it for us, because while I had the Orcs' shocked/stunned/WTF attention, I kept nudging my knapsack at Ufkoth with my foot. The universal, 'Get my pepper spray outta the bag and let'em have it' signal. He was paralyzed from the neck up through the entire first verse. Then he snapped out of it.

One screaming, thrashing, bungee-cord-applying fun time later, we had ourselves two trussed up, pissed off Orcs on our hands. But wait... it gets better.

Ufkoth took a look at the paper they were hunched over earlier, and revealed his hitherto unknown talent for reading. Okay, big surprise. But here's something interesting: the paper was a long list of names and numbers, some checked off, some crossed out. I thought, what the hell? So I asked – in Westron – what their names are.

I'm not even lying about this.

The tall one wouldn't answer at first, but his little buddy snarled out Gimbash. Well, I heard 'one who finds,' but trust me, it's Gimbash.

 **Me:** Okay, and you?

 **Tall Orc:** [stink-eye]

 **Me:** [to Gimbash] Is he your commander?

 **Gimbash:** Whatchou wanna know fer? Who're _you_?

 **Me:** A tourist taking in the sights. Lovely place you've got here. Could use some Febreze, though. So what's his name?

 **Gimbash:** Ain't yer bizness.

 **Me:** [slyly] So why'd you tell me yours?

 **Gimbash:** [stumped]

 **Me:** [waves list] What's this about? Who's on this list?

 **Gimbash:** [clams up]

 **Me:** [deep, long-suffering sigh]

 **Ufkoth:** I'll make him talk. [unsheathes knife]

 **Me:** That's not being very friendly, now is it?

 **Tall Orc:** What do you want, filthy _tark_?

 **Me:** Guides into Mordor. Specifically to Orodruin. Know anyone we could ask?

 **Gimbash:** The fuck yuh wanna go there fer?

 **Me:** Spoilers. [to Tall Orc] You seem like the leader type. If you're not interested, can I borrow your little friend here?

 **Tall Orc:** [bares teeth] You get nothing from either of us.

 **Ufkoth:** [done with this shit] Just kill them. Both of them. We'll find our own way.

 **Me:** [suddenly thrust into the 'good cop' position] Not until we know who we're dealing with. [to Tall Orc] You – what's your name? Tell me, or I'll start singing again.

 **Tall Orc:** [a little too hastily] [maybe even desperately] Shagrat. It's Shagrat.

As you can imagine, I nearly shit myself. Maybe I got 'demands ransom' translated in my head, but I know Shagrat when I hear it. Then the weird got weirder.

 **Me:** Group huddle. [gather Ufkoth, Frodo, and Sam a few yards away] [whispering] Holy crap guys, he's canon.

 **Frodo:** Oh dear.

 **Ufkoth:** What difference does that make? They're Mordor Orcs; they will stop us if they can. Kill them both now.

 **Frodo:** But we _can't_. He's canon; killing him is out of scope.

 **Sam:** What's he supposed to do? Is it real important?

 **Me:** Um... well... he... sort of... tortures and robs Frodo, _but that's not going to happen_. Because... we kind of screwed it up by meeting him on this side of the Ephel Duath. Sort of.

 **Frodo:** He is meant to torture me? [worried glance at Shagrat]

 **Me:** _Was_. Not this time around. [looks at list] There's something not right about this. I don't know what it's about, but I'm going to find out before we move another inch.

 **Sam:** [thoughtful] Well, we _do_ need a SME... Two's better than one, I expect.

 **Ufkoth:** You've both gone mad. They will kill us all.

 **Me:** _You_ didn't. Who's to say they will?

 **Ufkoth:** [smirk] They don't know you like I do.

 **Me:** Ah crap, we're doomed.

Then I glanced back at our captives, and Gimbash was in the process of inching toward me. Shagrat was staring at the list in my hand intently, kind of encouraging his little buddy's efforts. I'm thinking, _WTF is this?_

Declaring the meeting adjourned, I went over and confronted them. Far be it from me to restrain myself from name-dropping. I waved the paper in Shagrat's face and demanded to know if _Gorbag_ knew he had it.

Oh. My. God. You should've seen the _holy-crap-how-the-fuck-look-cool-man-don't-blow-it_ expression on his face. Then he had the nerve to affect totally transparent innocence and say, "Who's Gorbag?" Yeah, right. Pull the other one; it sings a song.

Meanwhile, short little Gimbash is silent for once, but has the shifty-eyed look of someone trying to find the nearest exit.

I'm giving them a little break, then going back into the ring. I don't know why, but this list is really damned important to them. It must be, because they haven't said one word about eating my face or ripping out my guts, the standard Litmus test for hostile party identification in Middle Earth, but they're both just staring at that list like losing possession of it means they've just lost the war.

* * *

Kung Fu Fighting by Carl Douglas, the way everyone else heard it (or close enough). It probably would've rhymed better in the original Klingon. ;)

Everybody was Kung Fu fighting

_Ashrûgh maukuzut Kung-Fûrz_

Those kicks were fast as lightning

_Shakolu snaku zash [lightning]_

In fact, it was a little bit frightening

_Atâr-ishi, kuluzat uf nardur_

But they fought with expert timing

_Naan ulu maukuzut paashum-sha sriz_

 

There was funky China men from funky Chinatown

_Kuluzut shara rakothûrzu China-obu, China-goi-ghaara rakothûrz_

They were chopping them up

_Ulu akuzut ul-sûr_

They were chopping them down

_Ulu akuzut ul-gukh_

It's an Ancient Chinese art

_Ta kulat shakathsi motsham Chinese_

And everybody knew their part

_Agh ashrûgh isstuzut ulub kraash_

From a feinting, to a slip

_Globuzut-ghaara, nalmâdkuzut-u_

And a kickin' from the hip

_Agh shakoluzut [hip]-ghaara_

Everybody was Kung Fu fighting etc.

 

There was funky Billie Chin and little Sammy Chong

_Kuluzut Billie Chin rakothûrz, agh Sammy Chong gaz_

He said, here comes the big boss, let's get it on

_Ta gashnuzat, goth dur skaatuzat tul, dav-izishu nork-ta-ir_

We took the bow and made a stand

_Norkuz lak agh gunduz-ir_

Started swaying with the hand

_Ashuz garzogat naakh-sha_

A sudden motion made me skip

_Shon trosh larg-izish narprak_

Now we're into a brand new trip

 _Rad_ _nûrl shakathsi ûn_

Everybody was Kung Fu fighting etc.


	27. What the Hell is Going On?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Same Day

I think I've just discovered the multiverse's biggest historical misrepresentation ever. Through wheedling and threats (I'm the wheedler, Ufkoth's the threatener – he's not the 'good cop' type), we managed to squeeze a confession out of Gimbash the Squealer. Okay, in retrospect, he's probably got the tightest lips in all of Mordor, or he wouldn't be Shagrat's right-hand Orc in this operation.

You are _seriously_ not going to believe this shit.

Gimbash did some quality whispering with Shagrat that I couldn't hear. He apparently assumed I have enough Orcish to do more than belt out 70s rock tunes, and kept his voice really low. Then he asked some probing questions.

 **Gimbash:** Whatcha gonna be doin' at the Mountain, eh? Ain't nothin' there.

 **Me:** That kind of information is on a need-to-know basis, and currently, you don't need to know.

 **Gimbash:** Seems like you need us, so maybe I need to know.

 **Me:** Right, and have you toddle off to the Eye and give us away. Huh-uh. You tell me about this list and why it's so important.

 **Gimbash:** You tell me what yer up to, and maybe I'll tell yuh that.

 **Me:** No dice.

 **Gimbash:** Then I ain't talkin'.

 **Ufkoth:** The list doesn't matter. _They_ don't matter.

 **Me:** [patiently] I'm not going to kill a couple of unarmed, tied up prisoners. That is beyond cruel.

 **Ufkoth:** [sneer] They are slimy Mordor rats. They don't deserve better.

 **Gimbash:** [affronted] And what're you, yuh turncoat?

 **Shagrat:** [sneer] Open your eyes. He's a half-breed. [examines Ufkoth] Likely one of those mongrels from Isengard. Worthless. Weak. Like their master.

 **Ufkoth:** [shitty] I was not bred in Isengard, and he is no longer my master!

 **Me:** [claps hands like school teacher] People, people! Settle down.

 **Gimbash:** [more sneering – it's an Orc thing] Yep. Traitor. Didja cut his throat or stab him in the back?

 **Me:** [restraining Ufkoth] Hey! That's enough! Answer me, Gimbash, or I'm unleashing the fury here.

 **Gimbash:** [snide] Go ahead. Don't take much to knock a half-breed down a notch. Won't even have to untie me.

 **Ufkoth:** [unholy roaring]

 **Sam:** [had enough of their shit] We're heading for your Mountain to put an end to your master, if you must know.

 **Gimbash:** [stunned]

 **Shagrat:** [mouth agape]

 **Me:** [sighing] Yes, well... There's that.

 **Gimbash:** Yer jokin'.

 **Sam:** No, I'm not.

 **Shagrat:** [back to sneering] You lie. You can do nothing to him at the Mountain.

 **Sam:** Oh no? Well, as a matter of fact, we _can_ do something...

 **Me:** [hastily] Something that's none of your business, and gosh wouldn't it be great if someone would shut up? [beady eyes on Sam]

Granted, Sam's been on edge, trying to keep his own master from finger-fucking the One Ring in Sauron's back yard. We've all been at that duty 24/7, even Ufkoth. We get a few hours a day of Sane Frodo, and that's it. They're not contiguous hours, either. I'm running out of songs I know, and I've started making things up. Or inserting vague mumbling where I don't know the words. So basically, Sam can be forgiven for losing his temper.

Upshot of the awkward moment is that, following another consultation between Gimbash and Shagrat, the latter finally ponied up.

 **Gimbash:** Yer serious. You can do somethin' to'im. Yuh just need to get to the Mountain.

 **Me:** Yes. It's a decisive blow.

 **Shagrat:** I suppose... we should... trust you, then. Since our goals are the same.

 **Me:** [blinking stupidly] Um... what?

 **Shagrat:** That list. It is contacts. Orcs we have identified as loyal to the Eye. They're crossed out. The ones we can trust, who will... aid us... we've marked.

 **Me:** [stunned] Aid you... how?

 **Gimbash:** We got Orcs ready to take'im out. Some at the gates, some in the Tower itself. Not enough, though.

 **Shagrat:** [frustrated] We're running out of time.

 **Frodo:** How is... Zoop, how can your history tell that he tortured me, when he is leading a rebellion against the dark lord?

 **Shagrat:** [confused] Tortured you? What?

 **Me:** [delicately] So... Gorbag's not on the trusted confidante list, is he?

 **Shagrat:** [sour] No. The little pustule isn't worth the seed it took to make him. [to Frodo] When did I torture you?

 **Me:** [dismissive wave] Water under the bridge. Or it would be if it actually happened. The important thing is that we can help each other.

 **Ufkoth:** Unless they're lying.

 **Me:** [stares expectantly at Shag-bash]

 **Shagrat:** [sigh] What would you have us do?

 **Frodo:** Does It call to you? Can you feel It?

 **Shag-bash:** [exchange bewildered looks]

 **Me:** [mutter] I don't think swearing on the Precious is going to work in this scenario, Frodo. Probably not a good idea...

 **Shagrat:** [glower] Precious? Did you say 'Precious'?

 **Me:** [struggles to remove foot from mouth] No, I didn't. I said... delicious. Mmm, _lembas_ is just delicious, isn't it? [innocent smile]

 **Shagrat:** That little skulker talked about 'precious.' You know what he meant, don't you?

 **Frodo:** I do. It is _here_. With it, I can command...

 **Me:** [loud interrupt] _Jeremiah was a bull frog! Was a good friend of mine! I never understood a single word he said, but I helped him drink his wine. *_

 **All (except me):** [stunned silence]

After I effectively shot down Frodo's insane attempt to wave the Ring in front of their faces, we joined forces with the rebel leaders and formulated a plan to sneak across Gorgoroth in spite of the heavy mobilization of forces down there. I had to divert some seriously suspicious looks from Shag-bash once they started familiarizing themselves with the Fonstad maps. As in, where did I get these, how come they're ridiculously detailed, holy crap it's a floor-by-floor representation of Barad-dûr where the fuck did that come from? Hang on fellas, we got one for Isengard, too. I had to reassure them that one of their own cartographers didn't defect.

So we're prepping for go-time now. And if you don't think I'm not all aflutter over hanging out with one of my favorite canon Orcs for a spell, you don't know me very well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Joy to the World, by Three Dog Night. Yes, I'm that old.


End file.
